Whisper Sweet Nothings 2 of Unstoppable Molly
by patemalah21
Summary: Molly Hooper must help Sherlock and John capture a diabolical serial killer before it is too late. Who will the next victim be? Meanwhile Sherlock and Molly's rather rocky relationship continues to be a roller coaster ride. Will these two ever get their act together?
1. The Beseige of Barts

Whisper Sweet Nothings

#2 in the "Unstoppable Molly Hooper" Series

A/N: This is a stand-alone story. However interactions of Molly and Sherlock are based on events in my previous story. For a better understanding of their relationship I suggest you read "The Unstoppable Molly Hooper." For those who wish to continue without reading the first story, be aware of the following: John has met Mary and their relationship will continue to evolve and well as John's friendship with Molly. Molly is now proficient in martial arts and street fighting. She is more confident and falls back into her stuttering mousey ways less frequently. She still has lots of room to grow and she is still very much the vulnerable Molly we are all familiar with. Sherlock has had some major struggles with himself about how he feels about Molly. He keeps wanting to slide back into his comfort zone but has at last, recognized that Molly Hooper is someone important in his life. Their relationship at the beginning of this story is limited to friendship and a few spectacular kisses. But cheer up, as in real life, relationships develop over time or they tend to wither. What's in store for our favorite pair? Only time will tell!

Chapter One - The Besiege of Bart's

The tall red-haired girl had been with the man who called himself Jacob for two weeks. At first they had been very silly and very happy. It was a vacation dream. Then as time passed the girl seemed to realize she was trapped and that he was not going to let her go. She became watchful, then fearful. Not even the drugs had helped. In the end the decision to part from her was inevitable.

Her body lay slumped over the arm of the overstuffed chair. Her pebbled skin already cooling. He watched as the last shuddering breath escaped and hung in the air and was replaced with silence.

Stooping, the tall man gathered the body into his arms and carried her over to the prepared bed. He tenderly laid her on the ivory satin. Arranging the body to his satisfaction, he crossed the room and picked up the long florist's box containing three long-stem red roses. Slowly pulling each petal away, he scattered them around her body.

Standing at the foot of the bed, the man who called himself Jacob gazed at his work of art. She was perfect. He began to take digital pictures of the body from several different angles. Satisfied, he posed her hands on her stomach for one last photo. He withdrew a small plastic wrapped card from his wallet. Removing the wrapping, his gloved hands positioned the card in hers.

It read:

_**Victory becomes apparent**_

_**As life wanes in defeat.**_

_**Death now holds dominion **_

_**Thy beauty is complete.**_

He paused, took one last photo, collected his things and slipped away. The man who called himself Jacob knew his work was finished, for now.

**ɸ**

Molly Hooper sat at her desk filling out the endless paperwork that seemed to take up most of her time lately. She was bored. Bored with her job that suddenly seemed so routine day after day. She was bored with her tiny flat that was hardly more than a couple of rooms with a bath. Even Toby, her grey striped cat bored her. She hadn't heard him purr in ages and all he seemed to want to do was sleep. "It's just ridiculous," she told herself. "my life is so dull and repetitive, rather tedious in fact." She paused then shook her head sadly. "Great, now I'm beginning to sound just like him."

If truth be told, her reason for boredom was Sherlock's fault she childishly told herself. She hadn't heard a word from him in over two weeks. Since her adventures in helping capture Moriarty she had grown accustomed to the excitement and thrills of helping Sherlock and John with their cases. She felt strangely alone and sad. She knew it was partly her fault and bitterly regretted running away at the first sign of trouble. She should have stayed and fought. Part of her wanted to lay the entire blame at Sherlock's feet. There seemed little she could do about it now. Her mind drifted back to that evening two weeks before:

She had just finished a grueling day. Bart's was short staffed. Dr. Lodwick, the senior pathologist, had suffered a heart attack the week before; though he was recovering nicely, he had decided to take early pension. That meant the remaining pathologists had to pick up the extra work load until a new staff member could be hired. Molly was exhausted. She was just finishing the reports on her last post mortem when her desk phone rang.

A pre-recorded message played: "Dr. Hooper, this is Pauline Rodrick, Efficiency Consultant for Solutions Incorporated. As you have been previously informed, our group has been hired to interview staff and to inspect facilities in order to comply with new government guidelines. We will be making recommendations for changes that will allow St. Bartholomew's Hospital to run at maximum efficiency. This is a reminder that your mandatory interview is scheduled at 4:15 this afternoon. Please be prompt. Thank you for your assistance in this matter."

Molly grimaced at the phone. She had heard about the "interviews" conducted by Ms. Rodrick and her associates. Rumors claimed that at least five percent of staff were going to be terminated in the name of government efficiency.

4:15 found Molly sitting in the waiting area outside the interview rooms. A small pert blonde woman came through the doors and asked for Dr. Molly Hooper.

"That's me." Molly smiled and stood up. She was determined to be positive and good natured throughout this interview. After all, she knew she was an excellent pathologist and had no need to worry about job security.

Molly was ushered into an office. Seeing a striking brunette seated behind a desk Molly smiled and extended a hand.

"Good afternoon Ms. Rodrick" she smiled I'm Molly Hooper. Her smile was met with a cool stare. Ignoring Molly's hand she nodded and indicated a chair for Molly to sit in. Smile fading, Molly sat and discovered that the chair she was sitting in caused her to be several inches shorter than the woman across the desk.

"Psychological war is it?" Molly thought grimly. and straightened her back to allow herself to be as tall as possible.

"Dr. Hooper," Ms. Rodrick looked up from a stack of papers inside a folder, "I understand you have been with St. Bart's for seven years? Two of those as a intern and five as a pathologist?"

"Yes."

"Initially, you studied to become an Oncologist, Unusual for you to change career paths. What was the reason for your decision to switch to pathology?" She made the question sound as if Molly had done something wrong.

Molly forced a smile. She was expecting something like this.

"At the time my father was dying of cancer," she said simply. "I found the difficulties of dealing with his illness and studying the subject to be overwhelming. Pathology had always been my second choice. After counseling with Dr. Lodwick, I made the decision to change. I have never regretted it."

"So you are saying you settled for your second choice because you were unable to achieve your first choice?"

Molly frowned slightly, "No, Ms. Rodrick, I am saying that due to some excellent counseling I was guided into the area that best suited my abilities. I think you will find I have an excellent rating for my work."

Pauline Rodrick made no answer, just typed away on her laptop. She continued to ask questions about the organization and running of the morgue. The questions seemed to go on forever. Each question was slanted so that Molly felt it necessary to clarify each question before she answered. She felt as if she was being questioned by the prosecution and any mistake she might make could land her with a life sentence in prison.

I know what you are doing, she thought angrily to herself. You're trying to trick people into saying what you want them to say whether it's true or not.

The questioning continued. Sometimes a question she had already answered was asked in a slightly different manner. Molly grimly continued to carefully respond.

"And now, Dr. Hooper, It has come to our attention that you have authorized several non-government, non-hospital employees to have access to the morgue, the lab, and all its resources?"

"If you are referring to Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and Dr. John Watson, my answer is yes." Molly agreed. "All the proper paper work is filed and authorized."

"Um, yes," Ms Rodrick murmured. "I believe there is some question as to the notorious reputation of Mr. Holmes? He has quite a lot of negative press reviews and public opinion is quite mixed as to his authenticity. Perhaps this is not a good time for this facility to be associated with such a person?"

For the first time Molly saw red. She dearly wanted to slap Ms. Rodrick's sanctimonious face.

"I think you will find that he has been cleared of all accusations and is currently working closely with Scotland Yard," she said rather heatedly.

Ms Rodrick nodded thoughtfully. After a long pause she stated, "Well, that appears to finish the interview. Be advised that I will be inspecting the morgue and surrounding facilities tomorrow. Please have an inventory of all equipment available. You may go."

"Thank you," Molly said with more grace than Ms. Rodrick deserved. and walked proudly from the room.

**ɸ**

The next day brought Ms Rodrick and three associates to the morgue. They went over everything with a fine tooth comb. It was a nightmare. Molly and Tommy Reynolds, the other pathologist working that day, tried to continue their normal routine while being constantly interrupted by questions. Ms Rodrick could be seen constantly making notes on her ever present laptop. Finally around four o'clock in the afternoon they were finished. Molly sighed with relief and headed for her office. As she passed through the lab, she noticed Sherlock sitting in front of a microscope looking at slides. Molly glanced behind her and to her dismay saw Ms. Rodrick heading down the hallway toward the lab. Molly quickly sidled close to Sherlock and spoke rapidly.

"Heads up Sherlock, here she comes! Watch what you say." There wasn't time to say more. Molly desperately hoped it would be enough. She continued on her way to her office. The last thing she wanted was to get stuck in the middle of a conversation with that woman.

Pauline Rodrick paused as she entered the lab. Seeing Sherlock seated behind a microscope she slowly looked him up and down and evidently liked what she saw. She moved across the room and introduced herself. Sherlock smiled and seemed to enjoy the conversation. Molly couldn't hear what was being said. Pauline Rodrick moved even closer to Sherlock and smiled at him. Molly snorted as she peeked through her office window. If the woman got any closer she would have to climb into his lap. Molly frowned, Sherlock acted as if he wouldn't mind if she did.

"I hope he's just up to something. Surely he doesn't like her?" she thought rather jealously.

By the time Molly had cleared her desk and gathered her things to go home, Sherlock and Ms. Rodrick were no where to be seen. Molly desperately hoped they had not left together. She looked at the clock. Half past five. Molly sighed. If she was going to be ready in time for their date later, she needed to leave now. Sherlock had asked her out to dinner and to an evening of classical music. Something they both enjoyed. Molly had been looking forward to this date all week.

Rushing up the steps to her flat, Molly quickly thrust the key into the lock. Opening the door she hurried to her bedroom and opened the closet door. She looked at her watch. Darn that Pauline Rodrick, she had delayed Molly just long enough that there wasn't time to wear the dress she had planned on wearing. She looked sadly at the beautiful midnight blue dress. It would just take too long getting ready. A dress like that required careful makeup and upswept hair. Neither of which she had time for. She would just have to settle for the green dress. There was nothing wrong with the green dress, it was totally appropriate for the evenings activities. Molly gave one last sigh for the beautiful blue gown and thrust the green one over her head. A quick comb through her hair, allowing it to flow freely down her back. A fast touch up of her makeup and a fresh application of lipstick and she was ready. As she slipped her feet into black heels and picked up her evening bag she heard a knock at the door. She opened the door and smiled up at Sherlock. He looked so handsome standing there.

"Are you ready?" he asked, "I'm afraid we are running a little late."

"I'm ready." Molly replied.

Sherlock nodded, then paused. "I like your hair that way." he said softly. Then he ruined everything by saying. "Have you gained a little weight?" He continued to study her and then shook his head. "No, I don't think so. It must be the way the material drapes over your hips," he concluded.

"Sherlock! I don't believe even you can be so dense!" Molly exploded.

At his look of puzzlement Molly groaned with exasperation.

"Well at least you will never hear me say Oh Sherlock does this dress make me look fat? I won't have to. You will have already told me whether I want to hear it or not!" Molly glared at him. "Oh come on," she said. She softened her glare to a smile. He really was clueless. "If that's the worst thing you do tonight, I'll manage."

Their dinner progressed without a hitch. Of course Molly didn't have much of an appetite, but everything went smoothly until they reached the concert hall and everything went downhill. They were crossing the foyer when Molly heard a distinctive voice call out.

"Oh there you are Sherlock! I was afraid something had happened."

Molly stared, her mouth open in amazement. Crossing the foyer to them was Pauline Rodrick. She was wearing the most beautiful dress Molly had ever seen. Definitely not off the rack. Her hair and makeup were flawless. She was gorgeous. Molly felt like a rather tacky circus clown beside her. Pauline swept up and gave Sherlock a kiss on the cheek. She glanced at Molly. "Oh hello, fancy seeing you here."

"I was about to say the same about you," Molly said with deadly sweetness.

Sherlock smiled at them both and held out his elbows to escort them to their seats. He apparently missed the looks the two women gave each other behind his back. Seated, the lights dimmed and the music began. It was lovely, each note perfect. It was everything Molly had been looking forward to and she didn't hear a single note.

"Why had he done this to her?" She would have gotten up and left, except he had hold of her arm and refused to let go.

During intermission, Pauline headed for the restrooms and Molly took the opportunity to whisper fiercely to Sherlock. "I want to go home! Let go of me or I'll use some of my more inventive moves on you and you'll sing soprano for a week!" Molly growled.

Sherlock looked startled. "Molly, relax, I'm just trying to butter her up a little so she won't find a reason to deny me access to Bart's. Surely you realize that?"

"Oh I realize a lot, Sherlock. And if you try to butter that one up any more she is going to fry you in it and eat you for breakfast. I for one do not intend to be around to watch her do it." With that Molly jerked her arm free and as Pauline returned Molly gave them a tight smile and told Sherlock. "Don't get up. I am perfectly able to ask for a cab. Call me tomorrow." She left Sherlock staring after her.

Once in the cab. It was as if a dam burst. Molly couldn't even begin to stop the tears. The cabbie kept looking at her in his mirror with concern. He passed back several tissues which Molly gratefully used. It wasn't long before they were sodden messes and the cabbie silently passed back fresh tissues. Pulling up in front of Molly's flat, Molly gulped and continued to mop up tears.

"Are you going to be alright Miss?" the cabbie asked.

"Nothing that about a hundred years won't fix." Molly sniffed.

"He ain't worth it Miss," the Cabbie advised. "Any man who would upset a beautiful woman like you doesn't deserve you. If he was here right now I'd beat the living daylights out of him for you."

"Thank you. You are a true gentleman." Molly smiled through her tears.

"You just take my advice and dump him," The cabbie told her. "Remember when he comes crawling back that he ain't worth it."

The next morning when Molly had called Sherlock's flat there was no answer. Molly wondered if he had made it back to Baker Steet at all. Knowing the predatory Pauline he was probably at her place. Molly told herself that she didn't care. He was free to date whom ever he wished. He'd just better not expect her to come along as well!

That was two weeks ago. In all that time there had been no word, nothing. Molly had dropped in to see Mrs. Hudson and found out that Sherlock and John were in Sussex working on a case. Something or the other about a vampire. Molly was sure Mrs. Hudson was mistaken.

Molly sat and looked at her mobile. She wanted to text him, she really did. Something, stubbornness she suspected, kept her from doing it. Molly sighed. She was so bored. She looked at all the paperwork piled up on her desk. She had lots to do but she couldn't concentrate on it. As she laid the phone down and started to resume work, it jingled alerting her of an incoming text.

**I miss you**

**SH**

Molly stared. Tears began to fall as she texted a return message.

**I miss you too**

**Molly**

**John says I'm an idiot**

**SH**

**I agree with John**

**Molly**

There was a very long pause and Molly wondered if perhaps she had ruined things again. Then she heard the familiar tones.

**Can we try this again when I get back? Dinner and a Concert? Just you and me**

**SH**

Molly smiled. Suddenly she wasn't bored. She felt as if she could fly.

**I would like that very much :) **

**I would tell you to give John a kiss from me, **

**but people might talk **

**Molly**

**Funny**

**Be home soon**

**SH**

A/N I've been reading an excellent fanfic by footshooter called _The Sussex Vampire, _so when I needed to get John and Sherlock out of town for a while in this story, I couldn't resist sending them off to Sussex. Be sure to check out footshooter's fanfic, it's great.

A/N again- As always- reviews are the sustenance of writers. Please feed me.


	2. Experiments

Chapter Two - Experiments

Really, it was so easy. The man who called himself Jacob sat in the corner of the crowded coffee shop with his laptop on the table before him and watched. The girl was several tables away, peering intently into her own laptop as she tapped furiously on it's keyboard. As people jostled past her table, her concentration remained glued to her screen. He smiled, "Perfect," he thought as he picked up several books and edged his way across the room. As he passed her table he allowed one of the books to slide and fall to the floor.

"So sorry," he mumbled as he stooped and palmed her wallet from the open rucksack along with the fallen book. She didn't even look up as he stood and walked slowly on. He entered the men's toilet and locked the door. Spreading the cards from the wallet on the small counter space beside the lavatory, he pulled his phone from his pocket and took a picture of each. Her name was Emily Pickerson. "Hello Emily," He said softly, "we're going to have a lovely time together."

He put the cards back in the wallet and left the room. As he passed Emily's table the wallet slid from his fingers and landed inside the rucksack once more. He continued to his table where he sat in front of his laptop and began to research one Emily Pickerson, born 6 November, 1992.

**ɸ**

John rustled the newspaper and settled in his chair. Today was his day off at the clinic, and he planned to laze about and do nothing in particular. Perhaps he would go to the library later and pick up a few novels. He hoped Lee Child's new _Jack Reacher_ novel would be available. He was in the mood for a good fist thumping, action filled thriller.

"John, there's been another one." Sherlock stood up from where he had been sitting on the couch and carried the laptop across the room for John to see. John scanned the press update and looked up at Sherlock.

"They're calling them _The Rose Petal Murders_." John muttered. "That makes three, wonder when Lestrade is going to get around to calling you?"

"It's probably not his case. If Dimmock or someone else is in control, we'll never be called in." Sherlock grimaced. "Lestrade is the only one willing to work with me now."

"Give them time; most of them are a little wary of bad press where you're concerned."

"They didn't like me before Moriarty. Now they have a good excuse to ignore me." Sherlock ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "I'm going over to Bart's. Molly has a fresh pancreas waiting for me. Want to come?"

"No, I'm comfortable right here. Say 'Hi' to Molly for me and Sherlock, remember to try to be nice to her. Okay?"

"Of course. You act like I try to hurt her feelings on purpose. While I admit in the past I may have not realized how overly sensitive her reactions to the truth are, I now am endeavoring to express facts in small fictitious remarks she seems to find more palatable."

"Does that mean you are lying to her? Because if you are Sherlock, you will find that she will not appreciate lying any better than hurtful words."

Sherlock looked at him with a slightly confused look. "If she doesn't appreciate the truth, but doesn't want me to lie to her, I fail to understand how I am supposed to respond. I'll just be myself," he decided.

John just shook his head and pulled the newspaper up. Sometimes, he thought, Sherlock could really be dense.

**ɸ**

Molly sat at her desk typing in information into the new revised database for pathology reports.

C.N. - 459231 - 36

Name - John Calhoun

Race - Caucasian

Age - ~ 35

Height - 1.9 m.

Weight - 91.75 kg.

Cause of Death - Overdose of Diltiazem, blood level 4,000 μg/l.

Molly sighed, Diltiazem was a common medication prescribed for angina, a symptom of coronary heart disease. John Calhoun had no indications of heart disease, but Molly knew the drug was easy to obtain. She tabbed to the "additional comments" section of the report and typed, "Probable suicide."

She continued to fill in the required spaces in the report. This was her least favorite part of her job. Paperwork, well not really paperwork, more accurately online documentation now that the department was striving to go paperless. One of the few recommendations Ms. Rodrick had suggested that Molly agreed with. Thank God Pauline was finished with the morgue and its attendant facilities. The last Molly had heard she was now making everyone in admissions miserable.

Molly pulled up the hematology report and plugged it into the file. Results showed indications consistent with a recent drug overdose. She continued to pull up the myriad test results and to compile them into a coherent report. She glanced at the list of stomach contents and paused. The subject's last meal had consisted of pizza, beer and balut. Of course other ingredients as well as a small amount of the fatal diltiazem were also present, but her attention was focused on the word balut. What was it? Why did it seem familiar? Molly Googled the word:

_Balut: a fertilized duck or chicken embryo boiled and eaten in the shell. A highly prized snack in the Philippines, Vietnam and other Southeast Asian countries. Popularly believed to be an aphrodisiac. _

Okaaay," Mollie thought to herself. She was a fairly adventurous eater, but she didn't think she would want to try balut anytime soon, aphrodisiac or not. Molly finished her report and filed it into the system. She glanced at her wristwatch. Twenty minutes until her lunch break. Not enough time to bother starting another report. She pulled up her timetable and looked at the list of things she had planned for the rest of the day. One post mortem, seven various lab tests and of course the inevitable reports to be uploaded to the system. Her thoughts began to drift and as usual they drifted to thoughts of Sherlock. Since the "triple date" with Pauline, Sherlock and herself, Molly had time to think a lot about Sherlock. He had been different lately around her. She was not sure she liked it. He was being very _unSherlock_. He was cautious, often slightly hesitant before talking. His speech sometimes seemed stiff, unnatural, and oddly neutral. Sherlock hadn't snapped or said anything even bordering hurtful in a long time. Molly sighed. She ought to be over the moon that he was treating her like this, but something told her it wasn't genuine. He was up to something. Usually that did not bode well for Molly Hooper.

As she tidied up her desk in preparation for her lunch break she turned to see the subject of her thoughts standing behind her leading on the door jam to her office. Molly jumped and gave a small squeak of surprise. Sherlock just looked at her and grinned.

"Sherlock! You know I don't like it when you sneak up on me like that!" Molly narrowed her eyes. "What do you want? You have a very shifty look about you."

Sherlock just stood there looking at her for a moment, and then said, "You're not wearing your usual color lipstick. This one is too orange. It makes you look garish. And the way you have your hair pulled back in ponytail is too severe. You look much nicer when you wear it tied to the side."

Molly looked at Sherlock searchingly. He stared back soberly, but there was a glint in his eyes that told her he was not trying to be hurtful, exactly. She grinned up at him.

"Well hallelujah, it's about time for you to get back to normal. What's been going on? You've been so polite and nice I was beginning to think you had been replaced by an alien from Mars."

Sherlock looked thoughtful. "It was an experiment." He confessed. "John said you wanted me to be nice and not say anything hurtful. I must say this has been more difficult than I expected. I often found myself saying things I really did not intend to say."

Molly snorted rather indelicately. "You tell John Watson to keep his nose out of our business! I am not a delicate flower that will wilt with a little sarcasm from you. I would much rather put up with your sharp tongue than have to endure all the wishy-washy nonsense you have been dishing out lately."

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but Molly cut him off sharply. Pointing a finger at him she said, "Don't move. I'll be right back." She crossed the room and opened a closet and picked up the small step stool she used to reach the higher shelves in the lab. As she marched back to Sherlock he backed up against the wall. Molly stepped closer. Placing the stool at his feet she climbed up on it and stood on the small platform. She was now nose to nose and eye to eye with Sherlock.

"While I do appreciate you trying to not hurt my feelings, I would much rather you act like yourself."

Sherlock smiled, "My thoughts as well. It was just that John was so sure. . ."

Molly frowned and poked a finger into Sherlock's chest. "Let's get one thing perfectly clear," she growled, "This is between you and me. We are perfectly capable of handling any difficulties that may arise. You saw how I handled the ridiculous situation with Pauline at the symphony. If you overstep your bounds with me you will know it, make no mistake. And wonderful friend that he is to both of us, we do not need John to tell us how to conduct our relationship. Just remember it's you I like, not John Watson."

"Is that what this is?" Sherlock murmured. "A relationship?"

"Definitely," Molly replied. Suddenly her eyes held a wicked gleam. "I think," she said smoothly, "since you have been conducting experiments on me, it is only fair I conduct one on you." With that she stepped forward on the stool and closed the small gap between them pushing Sherlock hard against the wall. Their bodies melted together so close a piece of paper could not have been wedged between them. Molly put everything she had into the kiss. After a second or two of surprise Sherlock became an enthusiastic participant in Molly's experiment. Things progressed rather well until they both heard the click of the outer lab door.

"Damn, Molly whispered. I forgot about lunch!" Faster than Sherlock had ever seen her move Molly grabbed the step stool and ran across the room to replace it into the closet. Sherlock barely had time to tuck his shirt back in before Mike Stamford was at the door to the office.

Ready to go Molly?" he asked and then looked at Sherlock who was leaning against the wall and over to Molly who was closing the closet door and tugging her blouse at the same time.

"Yes, I'm ready," Molly beamed at Stamford, "I wouldn't want to keep everyone waiting." As she passed Sherlock she said. "The pancreas you wanted is in the third locker. Help yourself." She sailed out of the room.

Stamford turned to follow, hesitated, and then looked back at Sherlock. "I hope I didn't interrupt anything?"

"Nah," Sherlock replied nonchalantly, "we were just talking about an experiment."

"Experiment was it?" Stamford grinned, then produced a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to Sherlock. He gave a loud cackle and said, "Here, you might need this. Orange looks better on Molly than it does on you." Still chuckling, Stamford left the room to join Molly and the others for lunch.


	3. Darkness and Light

Chapter Three - Darkness and Light

The room was dark and cold. The heating unit in the cheap hotel room was not working properly, which did not surprise the man. From the sagging satin sheet covered mattress to the scarred and scratched furniture, everything in the room was old and worn out. The room stank of cigarettes, stale booze and urine. It didn't matter. All that mattered to the man who called himself Jacob was the struggling form of the bound and gagged woman on the bed. She was young and pretty.

"Ah Emily," he sighed as he looked into her horror filled eyes. "You were the best," he assured her. "The others were nothing compared to you."

The girl whimpered behind her gag. He bent down and touched the smooth skin of her left thigh. Emily made an angry groan behind her gag and tried to shift away from his touch. She couldn't move far. The ropes tying her ankles to the foot of the bed and the ones securing her wrists above her head did not allow much room to maneuver. The man who called himself Jacob smiled. He could tell from her reactions that the light sedative he had given her to get her into the room unnoticed was wearing off. That was good. It was important that she be aware of the ceremony and what was happening to her. He pulled up a rickety straight-backed chair and sat beside her waiting. Only a few more minutes. She was about to become beautiful and very dead.

As he waited, the man who called himself Jacob felt the urge to talk, to reminisce. "I was fifteen when Father first allowed me to go hunting with him." He told Emily. "Father enjoyed hunting prostitutes. We would go late at night and pick up a girl. My father would tell her he wanted her to make a man out of me. Once we got to a hotel room, he would take over." The man who called himself Jacob frowned. "It was the only thing Father did that I did not approve of. I thought the prostitutes were dirty and disgusting. I liked what he did to them afterwards though."

The man who called himself Jacob went on in almost a reverent tone. "Father taught me everything. He made sure I understood how important it was to pay attention to details. By the time I was twenty, I was helping him with the girls. I didn't mind so much then that they were prostitutes." He looked down into Emily Pickerson's eyes and smiled. "Not that I ever thought of you as a prostitute, my love. You were a precious gift. I never dreamed you would be a virgin. Not in this day and age. You have given me what every man secretly desires. I will be your only one forever." He rambled on, declaring his love for her. His appreciation of her beauty. Small inane remarks to fill in the time. Sweet nothings to calm the girl.

When it was time, he stood and walked over to the small suitcase and donned the thin white MicroGuard coveralls. He carefully covered his face with the plastic shield and then picked up the knife, his father's knife and returned to the bed. Emily's eyes widened and she began to struggle in earnest.

"Because I was the first for you, I have decided to allow you to be my first. He held up the knife for her to see. I have killed before, but not with the knife, my father's knife." He looked down into her tear streaked face. He saw the moment she gave up and accepted her coming death. He wiped the tears away from her face. "Don't be afraid poppet, it will be over soon." He bent down and kissed the spot on her cheek that he had wiped the tears from.

The man who called himself Jacob thought he would be nervous, but the knife felt comfortable, as if he had done this a thousand times. Well, he had in a way, watching Father, and later in his fantasies. He was truly ready. With a quick slash he made a horizontal cut across Emily's body right below her breasts, and then quickly as the blood began to flow, he made a vertical cut from the midpoint of his first cut. Dragging the knife down her torso he ended the cut in a quick curve to the left. He stood back and surveyed his work. The cut in the shape of a large letter J was bleeding copiously. Ignoring the muffled screams, he quickly slashed both of the girl's arms from her wrists to her armpits and repeated the cuts on her legs from the groin to the ankles. Blood spurted everywhere as arteries were severed. It looked like a red water fountain cascading downward to soak into the bed in patterns like rose petals. Soon she was too weak to struggle, then the moans ceased as she lost consciousness. At last her breathing stopped and her eyes began to glaze in death.

He stood beside the body and held the knife over his head. "My name is JACOB!" he announced in a steady voice. No longer did he need to be the man who called himself Jacob. _He was Jacob_. And like his father Jacob and grandfather Jacob before him, he had a calling. Wiping the blood off his gloved fingers he positioned the card containing his latest verse on Emily's stomach. He idly wondered if Sherlock Holmes would be called in this time. If he was, Jacob was curious to see what he would deduce from the words. Apparently, no one else was clever enough to figure out what was going on. He had high hopes for Mr. Holmes however and looked forward to dealing with him in person one day soon. He glanced down at the card:

When I stare into your lovely eyes,

I see the anger held at bay.

While within, your darkness cries,

As death creeps close your way.

Jacob silently laid a single red rose on the body beneath the card and went to the adjoining bathroom and stripped out of the blood covered coverall. Carefully folding everything into a small duffle, he left the hotel. He was sated for now, but he knew it wouldn't be long before he would need to hunt again.

**ɸ**

Mycroft sat in the chair of the reading room of the Diogenes Club. He was supposed to be reading the newspaper he held in front of him, but actually he was thinking about a recent visit he had made to see Mummy.

Ten years ago, when Marie Venet Holmes had been Seventy-three years old, she had surprised her two sons by announcing her recent marriage to Jean Leflore, a French diplomat who had been attached to the embassy in London. In the intervening years much of her time had been spent in Paris with only occasional visits to her London home. Mycroft had seen little of Leflore, apparently they were still together, but he had retired and moved back to France and had not been seen since. Today at the advanced age of eighty-three, Marie was still going strong, making life difficult for anyone who disagreed with her. Hence, her invitation. Mummy was at her London home and wanted to see Mycroft. It was not a simple invitation, more of a summons really, and Mycroft had reluctantly gone. It went just about how he expected it to go. With the tea barely poured, she had launched into the subject of her concern.

"Why aren't you married by now Mycroft?" Marie stared at her son sternly.

Mycroft sighed, "Mummy we have discussed this already. You know I am sterile. At my age, there is no reason to get married just so we could adopt. It wouldn't be fair to the poor girl, even if I could persuade one to marry me."

"Nonsense." Marie said briskly. Forty-three is not old, and who said anything about you marrying a girl?" Don't you have some man friend hanging around somewhere?" She looked at her son expectantly.

Mycroft was shocked. For his mother to say such a thing to his face rendered him speechless.

"Mycroft, Mycroft," his mother said shaking her head. "Don't you know that a mother always knows? I've known you were gay since that time you invited the Williams boy to visit on holiday when you were fifteen."

Mycroft stared at his mother in consternation. "I didn't know I was gay for sure until I was twenty-three."

"Which goes to show you a mother always knows." Marie repeated. "Now do you have someone you would consider marrying or not?"

"No, I don't," Mycroft said, "and it's not that simple. A person in my political position cannot afford to flaunt traditional values so openly."

"Oh, come now, this is not the dark ages." Marie sniffed. "Gay couples marry all the time now."

"Not the ones in government, Mother."

Marie nodded thoughtfully, "Well then," she said, "we'll just have to find you a woman that wants a child and doesn't mind being hooked up with you."

"You make me sound like a worn out pair of work boots at a fancy dress ball." Mycroft complained.

"A mother must work with what she has. Now, let's see. Who do we know that could fit the bill? How about Bob Flinder's oldest girl, she's not married."

"That's not funny Mother." Mycroft said huffily. "Jeanette Flinders is as least sixty-five and you know it."

Marie smiled. "Don't dismiss her on account of age. I have it from very reliable sources that she thinks you are quite handsome. However in this case I quite agree. Jeanette does not have the temperament to be a good mother."

"Thank God for that at least." Mycroft mumbled to himself. "Mother, I think this has gone quite far enough. If there is nothing else you wish to talk about, I have several Important . . ."

"Sit down." Marie said sternly. There were no smiles about her now. Mycroft who had half risen to leave sat back down.

"I know," she continued. "What about your secretary, what's her name? I can never remember it. Every time I turn around she changes it."

"It's Anthea; and she is my assistant, not my secretary. You leave her alone, Mother. She is a good friend and I will not have you messing around, spoiling a perfectly good working relationship." Mycroft said heatedly.

Marie Lefleur watched her oldest son carefully. "All right," she said suddenly in a smooth voice, "no need to get upset. I'll tell you what, I will give you until Christmas to come up with a suitable match or I will begin to take steps."

"Mummy, this is ridiculous. I will have no part in this," Mycroft said sternly.

"You will, or I will take matters in hand. Christmas, Mycroft. That's my final word . . . unless you can guarantee an engagement announcement from your brother. Say, by Christmas?"

Mycroft snorted. "There is less chance of Sherlock getting married than I, Mummy. You know how he is. What woman or man for that matter could stand to be around him for a lifetime? You would have better luck having the pope announce that priests and nuns could marry as to see Sherlock wed."

"Doesn't he have that Doctor still rooming with him? You don't think they are cozying up together?"

"No, Mummy. Though for a while I thought they might be. Apparently they are just good friends." Mycroft said.

"Oh. Well what about the other Doctor, the creepy one that cuts up dead people? What's her name? Millie, Mindy, Mandy?" Marie asked.

"Molly," Mycroft said. "I don't think there is much hope there. Sherlock has been using her to get access to the morgue for his experiments, but I think that's all it is."

"Pity," Marie said. "It would have been nice to have a Doctor in the family. Well, you have your work cut out for you Mycroft. I want an engagement by Christmas from one of you. I don't care which."

"What brought this on Mummy? Why now for heavens sake?"

Marie shook her head. "I guess it all started when Sherlock faked his death. Life is short and none of us are getting any younger. I want to see you all settled before I die." Marie Lefleur pressed a hand against her head. "Oh dear. I feel one of my headaches coming on. I'd better lie down before it gets worse. You have no idea how much I worry about you boys. Thank you for coming over today, Mycroft." She stood up, leaned down and kissed his cheek. "Think about what I said," she reminded him and tapped his cheek with a finger as she stood and left the room.

Mycroft just shook his head. Mummy always had this effect on him. He had no idea how he was going to solve this problem.

**ɸ**

Molly looked up from her desk as Mike Stamford knocked on her door. It was late afternoon, and she had just finished filing the latest post mortem into the system. She was looking forward to her day off tomorrow. Mike was not alone. Standing beside him was a tall distinguished looking man. Molly smiled and motioned Mike to come in. She stood as the two men entered her small office.

"Molly I want you to meet our newest pathologist, Gary Morris. Gary, this is Molly Hooper, one of the best pathologists you are likely to ever meet."

Ignoring Mike's compliment, Molly smiled and held out her hand. "I'm pleased to meet you Mr. Morris."

"Make that Gary, please." Gary's large hand engulfed Molly's small one. "Tomorrow is my first day, but I decided to drop by today and meet everyone. I hope I will able to help with the workload." He smiled and slowly released her hand.

Molly looked at the man's handsome chiseled features. She took in his neatly combed blonde hair, broad shoulders, narrow hips, and the long narrow legs that ended in shiny shoes and the thought "Greek God" passed through her mind.

"I was rather hoping that you would take the time to show Gary the ropes, Molly," Mike asked with a sheepish grin. "I could show him but I'm sure you would do a much better job. That way you can cover not only the facilities but you would be able to go over procedures with him as well."

"Of course," Molly said. She glanced at Mike. "This is a pleasant surprise; I thought the open pathologist position was not to be filled until sometime after Christmas. We may actually get caught up on our reports soon."

"Yes, we are very lucky," Mike agreed. "It was a matter of him being in the right place at the right time I expect." Mike smiled blandly.

Molly looked at Stamford. What an odd response, she thought. "Shall I show him his office area? It will be Pauling's old one I assume, since he has been promoted to head pathologist?" Mike nodded his head in agreement.

Molly turned to Gary Morris and said, "Doctor Pauling is not here today. You'll be able to meet him tomorrow. I'll introduce you if you like."

"There's no need," Gary smiled. "I met him yesterday when I was interviewed for the job."

"Well, Gary, I'll leave you in Miss Hooper's capable hands." Mike clapped him on the shoulder in a friendly manner and left the room.

As Molly led him around the morgue, she learned that he was inquisitive and charming. She found out that he was single, only two years older than she, had two brothers and a sister, and that he enjoyed sailing, mountain climbing and hiking. He just seemed to rattle information off whether she asked for it or not. "He sounds too good to be true." Molly thought to herself. The man was likable enough. He was very friendly and attentive to her, but something about him sent Molly's radar buzzing.

As they finished the tour, they passed the lab. Molly saw that Sherlock was seated behind a microscope working with slides.

"Is that Sherlock Holmes? Gary exclaimed in an excited voice. Oh you must introduce me. I have wanted to meet him for ages."

"I don't think . . ." Molly started out, but before she could finish her sentence Gary had grabbed her hand and pulled her into the lab behind him.

"Sherlock," Molly said in a breathless voice, "this is Gary Morris, our new pathologist."

Sherlock looked up and ignoring the outstretched hand, stared at Gary Morris for a few seconds. He glanced at Molly and noticed her flushed cheeks and look of distress. Sherlock stood up as Gary Morris started to lower his hand and held out his own and grasped Morris's hand firmly. "Sherlock Holmes," he said simply.

The two men stood smiling at each other, neither one moving. Molly looked from one man to the other. Morris towered over Sherlock by several inches but somehow Sherlock had the larger presence in the room. She noticed Morris flinch a little and then relax as Sherlock released his hand. Neither man said anything.

Molly cleared her throat and started to say something, anything to break the awkward silence.

At the same time Gary broke in with, "Well it's been a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Holmes." Gary turned to Molly and said, "I think I'll head down to my office and see if I can get it organized for my first day tomorrow." He paused for a second then asked in a confident tone, "How about meeting me this evening after you finish work and we'll go for some drinks or something?"

Molly blushed scarlet. She didn't want to go out with this man. She didn't know him and something about him bothered her. But Sherlock was standing there smirking at her and that mad her angry. Before she could think of a good excuse that would still save face in front of Sherlock, Sherlock ended it all by walking around and putting his arm around Molly. "Don't forget, Molly, we're watching a movie tonight," he said.

"Yes," Molly agreed, "I'm sorry Gary. Perhaps another time?" She winced as Sherlock's fingers pinched her side.

"Yes, well I'll be seeing you then." Gary smiled and left the lab.

"What was that all about?" Molly glared at Sherlock.

"Did you want to go out with him for drinks?" Sherlock asked in a lazy tone.

"No, but I was only trying to be kind. I do have to work with the man."

"Precisely, better he have a clear understanding of how things are Molly, than leading him on, allowing him to think he has a chance with you."

"How things are? What things Sherlock?" Molly asked exasperatedly.

"I can see I have neglected you too long," Sherlock murmured. "You once said that you needed time; that you wanted to go slow. Your words Molly, not mine. I think it's time we kick this relationship of ours up a notch and see where it goes, don't you?" With that he lowered his lips to hers and proceeded to kiss her as she had never been kissed before. It was if all their other kisses had been practice. This kiss was a whole different beast. At one point Molly felt sure she was going to faint. She was definitely light headed. Sherlock raised his head and looked into her eyes. Molly could see the hunger there, it frightened her with its intensity, but it also excited her. She knew this was what she wanted as well as Sherlock.

"Tonight, your place, seven o'clock," he whispered. "Don't cook, I'll bring take out and a movie." Molly nodded. He gave her a quick kiss and was gone.

After he had left, Molly grabbed a sheet of paper off a nearby table and began to fan herself rapidly. "Oh my," she said. "Oh my, oh my, oh my." It was some time before she was able to wobble across the lab to her office. Once she sat down, she didn't have a coherent thought for at least ten minutes.


	4. The Date

**Chapter Four - The Date**

Gary Morris opened the door to his office. He gazed around the meager space. His lip curled, it was a step down to what he was used to. The small and cramped room was about the size of Dr. Hooper's office. He sat down in the slightly battered office chair and idly opened the drawers of the desk as he hit the speed dial on his mobile phone.

" Yes?" The voice that answered was crisp and business-like.

"I made contact as planned," Morris reported.

"How did it go?" the voice inquired.

"It went well. They accepted me and don't appear to be suspicious," Morris answered.

"Good," the voice said, "I can't talk now. Meet me, seven o'clock tonight, at the usual place. We need to go over what happens next."

"Right," Gary answered and replaced the phone in his pocket. He thought about Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper. "Piece of cake." he grinned as he closed his office door and headed toward the exit.

**ɸ**

Molly was in a dither. She couldn't stop thinking about what Sherlock had said about kicking their relationship up a notch and wondering just what he meant. Well, she had a pretty good idea, and that was the reason for her nerves. She rushed around her flat plumping the pillows on the sofa. Lighting a few candles. Putting soft background music on and generally doing things that didn't need doing. Every five minutes or so she rushed to the bathroom and checked her makeup, or ran to her bedroom to check her outfit in the full length mirror to make sure she looked okay. She worried that the softly pleated blouse in a deep turquoise blue was too plain or that the skinny jeans were too tight. In the end she just gave up and hoped for the best. She glanced at the clock for the hundredth time, six forty-five. Molly groaned, sat on the sofa and forced herself to take deep breaths. "Inhale, hold, exhale. Inhale, hold, exhale. Calm down Molly," she told herself. "Inhale, hold, exhale. Inhale, hold, exhale. . . "

Ten minutes later when the door bell rang. Molly opened her eyes and exhaled slowly. "You can do this Molly," she told herself as she stood up. "It's just Sherlock, he'll probably look at you and tell your mascara is messy, and it will be okay. It will be okay because it's Sherlock and that's his way of telling you that he has noticed you."

She smiled as she realized that it really was okay. She wasn't fifteen or even twenty-five anymore. She was mature enough to not sweat the small stuff. The door bell rang again causing her to jump and hurry to answer.

Molly swung the door open and smiled as Sherlock pushed past her. His arms were full of packages and take out. Molly followed him into the kitchen area and watched as he dumped the contents in his arms onto the small table.

"That's a lot of take out," Molly commented and looked up at Sherlock as he hung his coat over the back of a chair.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "It's your day off tomorrow. I thought maybe we might not want to go out. so I ordered extra."

Molly swallowed as she stared into his intense eyes and processed what he had said. "Oh," she managed to say at last. She stared at him. He made her feel helpless.

"What?" Sherlock asked.

Molly shifted on her feet and forced herself to not wring her hands. "It's just not fair," she said in a voice that was almost a whisper. "You look at me, and my whole life is an open book. I look at you and who knows what you are thinking? It's just so difficult," her voice trailed off.

"You're an excellent pathologist, you are already trained to look for details; can't you deduce me Molly? You have before. Remember how you learned to anticipate me when we were practice fighting while were looking for Moriarty?"

Molly nodded.

"Do the same now."

Molly nodded again, noticing a slight quirk to the right side of his mouth. Did he realize he did that? Molly wondered. She had first noticed it two months ago when they had spend the day together. They had gone to a Maritime and Pirate museum. Sherlock had been relaxed and enjoying himself. They had just come upon a display of cutlasses when Molly had noticed the slight change in the way he held his mouth. Since then she had noted that same motion whenever he was looking at something he liked or enjoyed very much. She decided not to mention it in her deductions. If he knew about it, he would probably not do it again. It was her secret and she planned to keep it that way. She smiled slightly as she realized he had been looking at her when he had moved his mouth that way just now.

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"Nothing," Molly said. "I just need to clear my thoughts if you actually want me to deduce you." She paused and when she didn't get a response from him she continued, "Let's see, I'll start with the easiest first." She slowly circled him as he stood in the middle of the open area of the kitchen. As she returned to face him she began.

"You set this date up and dictated the parameters. Therefore you must want to be here." She said in her most clinical voice. She circled around him again. "You have changed your clothes. You are wearing a shirt you know I particularly like, so you obviously want to please me." He was openly smirking now. He knew what effect that damn purple shirt had on her. Molly ignored him with great difficulty and continued her slow circle. Pausing behind him she reached up and lightly touched his hair and the skin on the back of his neck. She could see his slight shiver. "You washed your hair, it is much softer looking and feels silky to the touch." He had dyed his hair back to it's natural black. It was still shorter than he was used to, but longer than it was when it was ginger. She missed the beard and mustache but was glad to see his dark curls again. As she came around to face him she noticed a glint shining in his left ear. "Your wearing the earring I gave you." She held her head to the right and considered it. "It looks even better on you now that your hair is dark." She reached up an placed a hand against his neck under the earring, then removed it. "You didn't jump or draw back like you sometimes do when I touched you just now," She observed. "Your eyes are dilated and your pulse is elevated." Molly cleared her throat. "You obviously want to be here and to be around me. How's that for a deduction?"

Sherlock looked at her and Molly gasped silently at the emotion in his eyes. She had always been fascinated by his cool grey eyes that analyzed and saw everything. Now Molly could see an intensity and heat that was compelling. It was as if his eyes were deep pools of blazing fire. She found she couldn't look away.

With a heartbreaking groan, Sherlock gathered Molly in his arms and held her close. She could hear his heart pounding, she could feel his arms trembling.

"Molly," her name was dragged in a ragged groan.

"I know," she said.

"I . . ." he tried again.

"I know, Sherlock," Molly whispered and held him closer.

Sherlock ran a frustrated hand through his hair. He turned to the table and grabbed a CD from one of the packages he had brought with him.

"Come," he said and pulled her by the hand into the living room. He crossed to the compact disk player and opened the case in his hands. Handing the case to Molly he inserted the disk into the player. Molly looked down at the case in her hand._ London Symphony Orchestra Rock Classics._ Sherlock shoved the coffee table aside. He turned out the lights so only the glow of the candles and the light from the kitchen lighted the room.

"Dance with me," he said as he took the case from Molly and tossed it onto the sofa. Molly nodded and moved to stand in front of him. He looked down at her feet and smiled. "I like your shoes, they're very practical as well as sexy."

Molly knew he was referring to the one inch sole that ended in a six inch spike. It made her tall enough to bring her head up to eye level with him. "You won't think that if I step on your toes in these."

He smiled, "I'll risk it." He started the player and the full rich sounds of the orchestra's rendition of _Take My Breath Away _began to play. Sherlock gathered Molly into his arms and they began to sway to the music. The song faded away and _How Am I Supposed to Live Without You_. began. They continued to move and turn. Molly suddenly realized that not only the words but also the music was Sherlock's way of telling her how he felt.

Molly looked up into his eyes and whispered. "It's so beautiful, you're so beautiful"

The song ended and _Unchained Melody_ began. "This is one of my favorites," he said. As the beautiful saxophone solo played the melody, violins filled the background. The music continued to swell. The chorus began again and this time Molly heard his deep voice begin to sing with the music. His voice wasn't perfect, but without a doubt it was the most beautiful thing Molly had ever heard in her life.

_Oh my love, my darling_

_I've hungered for your touch_

_A long lonely time._

_And time goes by so slowly_

_And time can do so much,_

_Are you still mine?_

_I need your love. I . . ._

_I need your love_

_God speed your love to me._

As the song faded Sherlock stood very still and looked at Molly. He didn't say anything.

Molly looked up into his eyes and softly said one word. "Yes".

"You're sure?"

"Oh god, yes." she answered.

Sherlock blew out the candles and lead Molly to the bedroom. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he motioned for her to put her feet in his lap. He slowly unbuckled the strappy shoes and dropped them to the floor. Molly watched as he massaged the soles of her feet briefly before sliding up to join her. They lay side by side and stared at each other.

"This is a bit awkward," Sherlock murmured. "Molly, I . . ."

Molly scrunched up her face, interrupting whatever Sherlock was about to say. She needed to tell him this before they went any further.

"I'm a virgin," she blurted out baldly.

Sherlock stopped mid-sentence. "You're a what?"

"A virgin," Molly repeated in a very small voice.

Sherlock stared at her and rolled over on his back and began to laugh. Molly sat up and glared in his direction.

"You're being mean," she blurted angrily, "I was too busy studying in university to develop a relationship, and since then I never dated anyone whom I wanted to have sex with until you." She crossed her arms over her chest in a protective gesture.

Sherlock continued laughing. "No, no he gasped you don't understand. I'm not laughing at you. I'm laughing at me."

Molly frowned, "At yourself? What do you mean?"

"I was trying to tell you when you interrupted me."

Molly leaned over Sherlock. "Are you a virgin too?" Molly asked incredulously.

Sherlock nodded. "Well, sort of," he thought for a moment, "I'm a semi-virgin." He clarified.

"And what exactly is a semi-virgin? Molly asked.

"I tried sex twice." he explained. "Once with each gender." He saw Molly wince slightly. "It was an experiment," he went on. "I found it extremely boring, so I decided sex was just not my area and haven't tried again, until now."

"Oh." Molly swallowed and stared at Sherlock. "Do you think you'll find sex boring this time?"

"Oh no." He assured her.

"How can you be so sure?" Molly's voice wavered uncertainly.

Sherlock pursed his lips in thought. "Well, I'm older now. I've read a few books on the subject, and John has some excellent pornography on his laptop. No I don't think boredom will be an issue. Besides that, I'm having sex with you and that makes a considerable difference."

"It does?" Molly still sounded a little uncertain.

"Of course it does; I care about you."

Molly knew that was the closest she would ever get to hearing Sherlock tell her that he loved her. It didn't matter, she knew he did.

"Do you want to be on top or shall I?" he asked. "Of course there are several other equally appropriate positions if you would rather?"

"What? Oh, um, could we be traditional the first time? You on top please?" Molly couldn't believe she was having this conversation.

"That's probably wise since you're a virgin and all" Sherlock agreed.

"Sherlock, You're not going to treat this as an experiment are you?

Sherlock looked at her quizzically. "Not good?" he asked.

"Extremely not good." Molly said firmly.

"Okay." Sherlock said with a sigh. "It's not an experiment.

**ɸ**

It was the early hours of the morning. Sherlock lay on his back. Molly snuggled close with her head on his chest. This whole sex thing was quite interesting he reflected. Molly seemed to be pleased and as for himself, he felt rather exhilarated. Definitely a new solution for boredom he decided. Molly moved slightly in her sleep and snuggled closer. Sherlock was usually a person who didn't want to be touched or smothered. He was pleasantly surprised to note that he actually enjoyed Molly's closeness even when they weren't engaged in sex. He felt the need to protect her even more strongly than the same feeling to protect John. When had that happened?

Sherlock allowed his brain to shift to his mind palace. Walking to the door marked Molly he pushed it open and entered. He had a lot of new information to catalog and to add to what was already collected there. For instance, take pleasure sensitive spots on the body, apart from the obvious places there were so many areas that seemed to trigger strong emotions in Molly. The back of the left knee for example. Not the right knee, just the left. And the inside of the elbows. He wondered if the sensitive places were consistent or if they changed over time or circumstances. He should be able to quite satisfactorily collect data if he was careful and made sure Molly didn't notice. She seemed to have a dislike for being the subject of his experiments. What she didn't know wouldn't hurt her.

He found it intriguing that Molly was so vocal in her responses to pleasure. It was interesting that it had seemed to have a positive effect on his own pleasure, and the way . . .

Vaguely, he heard a ringing sound, but was so deep in his thoughts the sound did not register as important.

"Sherlock," Molly nudged his shoulder. "Sherlock, your mobile is ringing." She poked his shoulder.

Sherlock's eyes shot open and focused as Molly moved away and gave him space to sit up on the edge of the bed. He picked up his phone and looked at the caller identification.

"Scotland Yard," he said as he looked at Molly. She nodded her head, smiled. "Yes," he answered the phone. "Sherlock Holmes"

The gruff voice on the other end of the phone belonged to Detective Inspector Dimmock.

"Mr. Holmes, Are you aware of the recent murders the press is referring to as the rose petal murders?"

"Yes."

"Well, there's been another one, we think, it's a little different and I would like to rule out a copy cat murder if that's the case. Do you think you could help us out?"

"Just a moment," Sherlock turned and looked at Molly.

"It's a case?" she asked.

Sherlock nodded. Molly could see the struggle of indecision on his face.

"Go on," she said with a smile, "it's okay. Just remember when it's over we'll be here." she grinned as she patted the bed.

Sherlock gave her a dazzling smile and spoke into the phone. "Inspector Dimmock, you'll need to send a car for me. I won't be able to get a cab this time at night from my present location. No, I'm not at Baker Street at the present." He rattled off Molly's address rapidly and assured Dimmock he would be ready. "I'll need you to pick up John Watson as well." he informed Dimmock and gave the appropriate address." He ended the call and speed punched John's number. A sleepy voice answered. "Do you know what time it is Sherlock?"

"Shut up and listen John," Sherlock snapped. "We've got a case! It's the rose petal murders! Now get dressed, Dimmock is sending a car." Sherlock snapped the phone shut and began to dress.

He hadn't realized Molly had left the room until she appeared in

the doorway.

"I put a fresh disposable razor and some shaving cream on the counter in the loo." she said. "Sorry, the razor happens to be pink."

While Sherlock was shaving, Molly dressed and combed her tangled hair. She usually braided it loosely for sleep, but of course last night it had been down. Now she struggled with several stubborn snarls in the brown locks.

Sherlock stood in the doorway watching Molly finish brushing her hair. "I'm going." he told her.

"Do you have time for coffee and toast?" she asked.

"I'll get something later," he told her. Molly knew he meant when the case was finished, but didn't say anything. They walked together into the kitchen.

"Toby! You little pig!" Molly exclaimed. Toby, Molly's grey and black striped cat lay stretched out in the middle of the table. His bulging stomach twice the size as normal. All four take-away cartons lay opened on their sides with food spilling out.

"He appears to have preferred the Mu Shu Pork," Sherlock observed with a grin.

Molly gave a disgusted snort and glared at the greedy tabby.

Sherlock picked up his coat from the back of the kitchen chair and slipped it on. Molly handed him the blue scarf. They stared at each other for a few seconds and then Molly went up on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. "See you around, Sherlock," she said softly.

He nodded and was gone.

Sherlock waited only a few moments outside when a police car silently pulled to the curb. John slid over the opposite side of the seat so that Sherlock could get in. The cruiser pulled out and headed for the crime scene.

As Sherlock settled in his seat, John grinned and asked. "How was your date?"

Sherlock scowled. "Do I ask you details about your dates John?"

"No," John admitted still grinning, "but this is Molly we're talking about."

John looked at Sherlock. He noticed his rather rumpled clothing. An unheard of condition for Sherlock. He also saw a rather large love bite gracing Sherlock's neck below his left ear. And was that an earring? "I'd wager it was at least a seven." John commented.

Sherlock's scowl deepened. "Shut up, John."

A minute passed slowly.

"Ten," Sherlock said. "It was definitely a ten."

The two friends looked at each other, grinned and both turned their eyes forward. Nothing more was said as the car moved steadily toward the crime scene.


	5. Oxford Blues

Chapter Five- Oxford Blues

It was always a thrill to return to the scene. To watch as others struggle to make sense of what he had left behind. He liked to watch them stoop, bend and crawl, always looking for something, anything, that might tell them who or what he was. It was useless of course. Jacob knew they wouldn't find anything. They never did. He was too clever, too resourceful, too careful.

On the street in front of the shabby hotel. Police and crime scene Investigators milled about waiting for the go ahead to start processing the crime scene. A police sedan pulled up to the curb. Two men got out. Jacob recognized them as Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. He watched gleefully as they walked over to where D.I. Dimmock was standing. The detective and his partner talked to the Inspector for a few moments, then followed Dimmock inside. Jacob smiled, he slipped into the rear of the group of investigators now following the first group entering the building. No one paid much attention. He like they, was dressed in the light blue coveralls commonly referred to as a bunny suit. His was slightly lighter in color, having been purchased online, but the color difference was so slight no one made a comment.

Jacob smirked, here he was surrounded by Scotland Yards finest and the great detective himself, yet he was invisible to them. Oh, it was glorious! He positioned himself in the hallway outside the open door of the crime scene to watch. Inside he could see John Watson standing on one side of the bed examining the body of the girl. Sherlock Holmes was standing quietly, slowing turning, observing the room. He suddenly bent down and retrieved something on the floor beneath the rickety straight back chair near the bed. He put whatever it was into an evidence bag and handed it to Dimmock.

What had the detective found? For the first time Jacob was slightly concerned. Whatever it was, surely it was insignificant.

"Do you have pictures and reports from the other scenes here?" he heard Sherlock ask Dimmock.

Dimmock motioned his hand and called a man named Garrison into the room. Garrison handed Sherlock a folder then returned to wait outside in the hallway with the other crime scene investigators. Sherlock opened the folder and glanced at the contents, then looked at the body of the girl on the bed, then back to the folder. Suddenly he stilled, looked at the floor by the chair then up and out to the men and women waiting in the hallway to process the scene. It was time to leave, Jacob realized. He was amazed at how quickly Sherlock had made the connection between the murderer and the investigators in the hall. Making sure to keep people between himself and the detective, Jacob quietly slipped over to the stairway exit and quickly left the building.

Sherlock looked into the crowded hallway outside the room. He turned to Dimmock and said in an urgent voice. "Check your people outside and make sure they are all there." Dimmock frowned slightly but nodded and walked out into the hallway. Sherlock followed. Dimmock scanned the group waiting in the narrow hall. He turned to Sherlock.

"Everyone's here."

Sherlock watched the group, looking for anyone nervous or uncomfortable. Everyone appeared appropriately bored or dedicated. He sensed nothing unusual from the group. He turned away to head back into the room when someone asked the D.I. about the new guy. Dimmock turned back around sharply.

"What new guy?" he demanded.

"You know," the man repeated. "The part time guy that moved here from Manchester." Several men nodded.

"Yeah," someone else agreed. "Name is Benson or Hedges or something."

"Idiot," the first man scowled at his colleague, "that's a cigarette brand. His name is Henson, Jack Henson."

Dimmock was dumfounded. "We don't have any new part-time people."

"He's been at the last three crime scenes," someone else recalled, "and I've seen him at the Yard several times." Several people nodded in agreement.

"Was he here today?" Sherlock asked. His question was answered with nods and yeses.

"Brilliant! Oh, he's so clever!" Sherlock crowed.

John Watson had joined Sherlock's side. "Timing, Sherlock," he quietly hissed to his partner. Sherlock glanced at him and nodded slightly. He turned to Dimmock.

"I suggest you retain Mr. Henson if he joins you again," Sherlock said as he walked back into the victim's room.

"You don't think it was a nosey reporter?" Dimmock asked.

Sherlock shook his head impatiently. "He has evidently been with you for several crime scenes. Have you noticed anything in the papers or on the news that would indicate so?"

"No," Dimmock replied.

"We can dismiss the fourth estate then," Sherlock commented. "It might be a nosey person who just wants a looky loo, but with the amount of preparation, I doubt it. No, I very much believe that you have harbored the murderer in your midst."

"Bloody hell," Dimmock breathed. "How in the world did you figure that out?"

Sherlock gave him a pained look and sighed. He pointed to the evidence bag Dimmock was still holding. "I think you will find that shred of fabric I put into the bag is actually part of a crime scene shoe covering. I had just taken it off the sliver on the chair leg when I noticed movement out in the hallway. Someone had edged away from the back of the group. I couldn't really see anyone, but the motion of the group indicated it so."

"He's been hanging around the crime scenes? That means all of them could be compromised!" Dimmock groaned, "who knows what he's done?" He pulled out his mobile and called to his men downstairs. Asking them to look around and to send out a car to prowl the surrounding streets and alleys. Dimmock pulled at his face in disgust. "He's probably long gone by now," he groaned.

Sherlock nodded but made no comment. Instead he started his analysis of the crime.

"You are looking at multiple murders by the same perpetrator. The satin sheets are consistent in all four scenes. Roses are present. Each body has a card with verse written on it." Sherlock looked at the photos in the file in his hands.

"He is escalating with each murder. The first murder victim looks peaceful. The rose petals are carefully arranged around the body almost in a caring way. The second and third victims are the same, but notice the eyes are open and the expressions on their faces indicate at least a semi-awareness of what was happening them. The rose petals are more abundant and strewn in a chaotic pattern, more symbolizing blood rather than sentiment I think. The current victim was totally aware of what was happening. She was forcefully restrained, a result necessary in a conscious victim. The sheet is mussed and creased by her struggle to free herself." Sherlock turned and pointed at the dilapidated chair by the foot of the bed.

"Notice there is no blood on the seat of the chair and yet there is blood on each side of the chair. The murderer sat and watched her bleed out. If you look at the floor you can almost see the outline of his shoes where his feet prevented blood from covering the area. He must have been soaked in blood by the time she died."

"Jesus," John swore.

Sherlock carefully walked close to the girls head and peered at the gag in her mouth. Sherlock slowly extended a hand to the navy blue necktie. Underneath the strap of the tie he could see the corner of a white piece of white material stuffed in her mouth, probably a handkerchief. He turned the end of the tie over. It was silk. Not a cheap knockoff but the real thing. The front of the tie was covered with embossed crests of a school. The bottom had a color version of the crest embroidered near the point.

"Oxford," he said in a slightly shaky voice.

"Sherlock?" John questioned his friend. He could see that Sherlock's hands were trembling slightly.

"Later, John," Sherlock said in a low voice and bunched his hands into fists and put them in the pockets of his coat.

Sherlock turned to Dimmock. "May I look at the card she is holding?"

Dimmock nodded.

Sherlock took his hands out of his pockets and carefully pulled the card from the victims hands. He gazed at the verse, ran one slightly shaking finger along the edge of the paper. "Quality card stock," he muttered. "Dreadful poetry." He turned the card over and went still for a moment. "It looks like our perpetrator wants attention," he commented at last and turned the card so that both John and Dimmock could see what was written on the back side.

On the reverse side of the card was a question printed neatly: "Sherlock, have you learned your lesson yet?"

"What's that all about?" Dimmock demanded.

"I'm not sure," Sherlock admitted. He laid the card on a blood free spot of the bed and took his phone out and photographed both sides. Placing the card back in the girl's hands, he pocketed his phone and turned to Dimmock. "May I keep this file for a while?" he asked, indicating the folder with the crime scene information.

"Yes. That's a copy I had made for you." Dimmock said.

Sherlock headed to the door. Pausing in the doorway to remove the shoe covers from his feet, he looked back at Dimmock. "I need to think," He told the D.I. "I'll be in touch soon." As Dimmock nodded, John removed his shoe covers and followed the detective from the building.

The ride home was in complete silence. John wanted to ask questions but knew his friend needed this time to be alone. Arriving at Baker Street the two men climbed the stairs and entered the flat. John watched as Sherlock crossed the room and closed his bedroom door behind him. He stared at the closed door in worry and concern.

Something at the crime scene had disturbed the detective greatly. It reminded John of the time at Baskerville. He decided to forgo tea and made extra strong coffee and added a measure of whiskey. Sipping the potent brew he sat in his chair and waited.

An hour later the door opened. Sherlock walked to his chair opposite John and sat down. John got up, poured them both whiskey and returned to his seat. Handing one glass to Sherlock he said, "Will you tell me what's wrong?"

Sherlock looked at him wearily. John couldn't remember the last time he had seen that particular look.

"I suppose so," the detective answered. "It's not a pretty story."

"The bad ones usually aren't," John said softly.

Sherlock took a great gulp of whiskey, allowed a few seconds for the burning to die down, and began his story.

"I was a mistake," he said. "Mummy and Father had not planned on any additions to the family. They were older you see. Mycroft filled the bill for a son to carry on the name and Father saw no need for additional children to mess up a perfectly satisfactory situation. Mummy was going through the change and did not even realize she was pregnant with me until her sixth month. I found out when I was older that Father wanted her to abort me, even at that late stage. She refused." Sherlock took another gulp of whiskey. "I grew up under the care of a couple of nannies and the staff. Mummy loved me, but she and Father were not getting on by that time and she often remained shut up in her rooms. Father had a terrible temper. I often wonder if he beat her. There were never any signs, but looking back I can remember her walking stiffly about the house several times after a particularly nasty fight." He paused, finished his drink, and stared into space for so long John thought he was not going to finish.

"Father hired a tutor for me when I was six," Sherlock took up the story abruptly. "His name was Jacob Arnold. He was educated at Oxford, and came highly recommended. To make a long story short, over the next several months he beat me if I did not do exactly as he said." Sherlock gave a grim smile. "As you might guess, I was beaten quite a lot."

John looked at him in horror. "Your parents?"

"Were busy fighting each other. Mummy was an emotional mess at the time. I don't think she actually realized anything was going on no matter how much I tried to tell her. And of course I would never bring the subject up to Father. Mycroft was away at school, there was no one else. I suppose the staff knew, but they had problems of their own and didn't interfere. It all came to a head one spring day. The weather had been terrible for days on end. It was the first sunny day in weeks and I wanted to be outside playing with my action man I had received for my birthday the day before. Master Arnold wanted me to redo several calculus problems and I refused."

"You were studying Calculus at at six years old?" John asked incredibly.

"I had just turned seven," Sherlock corrected. "The math wasn't the problem," he said dismissively. "It was refusing to do what Master Arnold wanted that was the problem. Something in him snapped that day. He started beating me harder than ever before. He took his tie off. I remember he always wore a blue tie embossed with the crest from Oxford in the material with a small embroidered crest at the point."

"My god," John interrupted. "Just like the one at the hotel today?"

Sherlock nodded. "He crammed his handkerchief into my mouth and used the tie to gag me." Sherlock continued in a low monotone. "I can still remember him yelling '_**Have you learned your lesson yet Sherlock**__?' _as he beat me. It was so bad, I lost consciousness at one point. I think he would have killed me if one of the maids hadn't come into the room."

John got up and refilled Sherlock's glass. "The words on the back of the card, they are the same as what he yelled at you all those years ago?" Sherlock nodded.

"Where is Jacob Arnold now?" John asked.

"He's dead," Sherlock said flatly. "He died about a year ago in prison. He was convicted for serial murdering a large number of prostitutes."

"Then how?" John began.

Sherlock looked at his flatmate grimly. "Jacob Arnold had a son only a couple of years older than me. He used to brag to me about how his son was just as smart as me. No, he was smarter than me, because his son always did what his father told him to do." Sherlock leaned over and picked up the file folder from the small table he had tossed it on when he came in the flat. He glanced inside for a few moments then looked up at John. "The first of these murders happened two weeks after Jacob Arnold died."

"And his son always does what his father told him to do," John whispered.

"We need to find out where Jacob Arnold's son is," Sherlock said as the two men stared at each other.


	6. Plots and More Plots

Chapter Six - Plots and more plots

_A/N - I apologize for the lateness of this update. Two weeks ago my beloved hubby went to the hospital with a ruptured appendix. If that wasn't bad enough his heart decided to go into arrhythmia. I have been home a couple of times to shower and change. The rest of the time I have been at the hospital with him. Needless to say I haven't spent much time thinking of anything else. _

_He is home now and recovering slowly but the worst is behind us and I am beginning to find myself in the throes of writing withdrawal once more. I do hope you will enjoy it._

_Patemalah21_

Six days and nights went by without a word. Molly didn't really expect to hear from Sherlock until the case was solved but a part of her wished he would at least let her know he was thinking of her a little. She heaved a small sigh. Grow up Molly; He'll be back when the case is done. Be patient. It didn't help that Dimmock was using a different morgue. There was no chance of Sherlock bursting through the doors demanding to see a corpse. Well, she was just going to have to get over this and get on with her work. She had important things to do as well, she told herself. She spent the afternoon running tests and confirming results. All her 'patients' had died of natural causes, accidents or suicide. It had been a very quiet day. She had just finished filing the last post mortem report into the system when her mobile jangled alerting her that she had a text message. She fished the phone out of her pocket and smiled as she read the message:

_John and I working late._

_Busy_

_Sh_

To be honest she was surprised that he had remembered to text. John must have reminded him. She dropped the mobile back in her pocket when it jingled again.

_Miss you_

_SH_

Molly's lips trembled. How was it that just two words could make such an impact? She quickly texted back:

_Long day_

_I miss you too_

_Molly :)_

Molly looked at her words. As long as Sherlock sent a text, she didn't care how short it was, but she decided she would match his brevity of style instead of rambling on at length as she was wont to do. She didn't want to bore him with too much sentiment. She could imagine what he would say about that! She hesitated over the emoticon after her name but chose to leave it. She liked it and he would just have to get used to it. She clicked send and dropped the phone back into her pocket. She picked up her things and headed out of her office, stopping in the hallway outside the lab as Gary Morris joined her.

"Molly, our schedules have kept us from seeing each other. How are you?" Gary flashed a smile and towered over her.

"I'm fine." Molly answered. "Are you working tonight?"

"No, I'm here to pick up some things from my office." Gary answered. "If you are getting off work, would you like to join me for a bite to eat? I've discovered a nice little restaurant not far from here that is actually quite good."

"Thank you for the invitation" Molly smiled to make her response less harsh." but I don't think that would be wise. I am in a relationship with Sherlock you know." She was amazed that she actually had said it out loud. It wasn't a secret or anything, but it was the first time she had admitted it to anyone. It sounded nice. . . who was she kidding, it sounded great. She looked up at Gary and was surprised to see an odd look on his face. It was quickly replaced with a smirk. He looked about him in an exaggerated manor as if searching for something or someone.

"Oh," he said returning his gaze to her face. "And how's that working for you Molly?" He pointedly looked about the room again. "I haven't seen a lot of Sherlock recently. Have you? A beautiful woman such as yourself should not be neglected so. If you get tired of waiting, let me know. I do know how to treat a lady well." He smiled, gave her a small bow and a wave of his hand and left Molly standing in the hallway with her mouth open.

What was it about the bloody man that bothered her? Any woman should be thrilled that such a handsome man was interested in her. Instead she found him rather overwhelming. It was hard to believe he was sincere with his compliments and invitations. She knew she was not bad looking, but beautiful? No she told herself firmly, she was not beautiful. She had long ago come to terms with her appearance. She was comfortable with how she looked. Men like Gary Morris did not give women like Molly Hooper a second glance. He made her nervous. He was too friendly, almost predatory. There was no spark or tension of awareness for him like there was when Sherlock came near. There was not even the sense of warmth and comfort she felt in John Watson's friendship.

Little devils of doubt crept into Molly's head and started a rhythmic tapping in her brain. It would be nice to have a normal relationship, one with perhaps marriage and children somewhere on the horizon. She pushed the thoughts away angrily. No she didn't care about that, well, not much anyway. What Sherlock and she had was enough, more than she had ever hoped for. She knew Sherlock cared for her, maybe even loved her in his limited way. He was certainly not interested in marriage or being a part of a family. She reminded herself that someday he would tire of her and find her boring. Live for today was her motto. It was enough she told herself firmly, pushing the little devils back where they belonged. It was all she was going to get and she was going to appreciate it for as long as it lasted. When the day came she was no longer wanted or needed she would hold her head high and not regret a single moment spent with Sherlock Holmes.

When she opened the door to her flat a few minutes later, she could hear the phone ringing. Pushing Toby away from her feet she hurried to answer.

"Molly!" Mary Morstan's cheerful voice greeted her. John had introduced the lovely maternity nurse to Molly soon after Mary had moved to London to be closer to John. Molly and Mary had taken an instant liking to each other. Mary's bubbling enthusiasm was a perfect match to Molly's quirky sense of humor. They tended to act like two overgrown teenagers when they got together. They even called themselves the M&M's.

"How are you? I'm bored and was wondering if you would like to go out and get something to eat or maybe go to a movie? I don't think either of us has much chance seeing our guys for a while. From John's texts I gather that Sherlock is somewhat baffled with the way the case is currently going. We haven't had a girl's night out in a while, what do you say?"

Molly swallowed and pushed aside the tiny green-eyed monster that reminded her that Mary had constant updates and texts from John. "That sounds wonderful she agreed. I'm starving so let's go out to eat. Where do I meet you?"

"How does the _Gnarly Apple_ sound to you? I know it's a little pricey, but I hear that the atmosphere is nice. We'll have lots of time to talk."

Molly agreed to meet Mary at the Soho restaurant at eight. She hung up the phone and grinned. If she pumped Mary enough she would soon know all about what Sherlock was up to. John always told Mary everything.

XXX

Jacob sat back from his computer. He had been researching online and admitted to himself that he was impressed with what he had discovered: Dunn School of Pathology, Oxford. Graduated with honors, Author of 12 published articles. Currently employed as a pathologist at Saint Bartholomew's Teaching Hospital, London. Most importantly, recently seen in the company of one Sherlock Holmes. All that and only thirty-three. Quite an accomplishment. Clearly Molly Hooper was a force to be reckoned with.

She was older than the other girls, a good ten years older than most. She didn't fit the pattern. He wondered if that would make a difference. Would an older woman be as satisfying? Targeting Molly Hooper might turn out to be very interesting. She wasn't much to look at. She must have hidden qualities. Sherlock Holmes seemed to think so. It might be fun to discover what those qualities were. Besides, targeting her would take care of two concerns. First it would eliminate a sharp and intelligent pathologist. In his line of work that was definitely a plus, and second, it would allow him to increase the terror factor in Sherlock Holmes's life quite satisfactorily. Terror was always an important element to create when he killed his male subjects. Men were not as much fun as women, but because of his connection to Father, Sherlock Holmes might prove the exception. What to do next? Should he target Molly Hooper now, or should he choose another and bide his time? Most importantly was Sherlock ready to play his game? Did he understand what was going on? Jacob needed to think about it. Maybe even ask for some advice, discretely of course.

XXX

The Gnarly Apple was a popular restaurant. It tended to be crowded no matter what the time day. Molly and Mary were fairly lucky in only having to wait forty minutes for a table. They spent the time in the bar aptly named the cider keg talking and sipping Somerset cider brandy. When their table was ready, they were lead past several dining rooms each named for a Heritage English Apple. Each room was scaled for a different dining experience. From the Orange Pippin room with its elegant linen draped tables gleaming with crystal and silver settings to the humble Catshead which was decorated in the look of a country pub. The girls had wisely not requested a specific room other than excluding the posh Pippin room, and Molly was delighted to find herself lead to the homey and comfortable Pearmain. Filled with high-backed booths and tables discreetly screened by greenery, the Pearmain was ideal for a private dinner with a friend. Molly sighed happily as she slid across the leather seat of the booth. Mary grinned back at her in agreement.

"Isn't this perfect!" Mary exclaimed. The owners of this place are part of the movement to restore the use of genuine heritage apples instead of the cheap waxy oversweet imports the shops tend to favor. She nodded thanks to the waiter and ordered a glass of wine and some mineral water as she accepted her menu. As Molly ordered mineral water Mary looked at her friend in askance. "You not are ordering wine as well? Why not?"

Molly just shrugged and grinned. Sherlock thinks I'm a lush. I'm cutting back to prove him wrong."

Mary frowned, "Molly you need to stand up for yourself more. Don't let Sherlock tell you what to do so much."

Molly grinned. "Don't worry, I'm picking my battles. I had already decided to cut back before he even brought the subject up. What are you ordering? This vegan plate looks good. That way it will leave room for apple crumble later." The girls happily discussed the menu options and placed their orders.

Mary obligingly shared all she had learned from John about the current case. Another young girl had been murdered by the rose petal murderer. Molly was suitably concerned to find that the murderer seemed to have a connection to Sherlock's childhood. Mary didn't know the details, just that the suspect was related somehow to one of Sherlock's teachers. Mary groused that John was being very closed mouth on the subject. "You'd think it was top secret."

"Maybe it is. You know how high profile some of their cases are." Molly said.

Mary gazed thoughtfully at her friend. "Molly, has Sherlock contacted you at all since this case started?"

" Oh yes, he's texted me twice." Molly said happily.

"Only twice?" Mary said in an exasperated tone. "Has he called you?"

Molly looked at her friend and shook her head. "It's okay, Mary this is Sherlock we are talking about. He's not John, and I am alright with this. Don't worry about it."

"In other words, piss off." Mary said cheerfully. "Okay, I get it, so let me change the subject a little. How are you and Mr. Cheekbones getting on? I know from hints from John that you two are perhaps closer than you once were. Has he kissed you yet?"

Mary observed as her friend blushed. Molly was old-fashioned and withdrawn by nature, it was hard to get her talking about her relationship with Sherlock Holmes, but Mary knew her friend well enough by now to be able to read her facial expressions, body language and blushes fairly accurately. Poor Molly, she must be an open book for someone like Sherlock Homes Mary thought.

"Okay, so you've kissed. I take it that went well. Did you do some cuddling on the sofa perhaps?" Molly blushed a deeper shade and squirmed slightly. "I take that as an affirmative" Mary said. She watched as her friend turned brick red and literally shift from side to side in her seat. "Oh god, Molly! You didn't! Sherlock didn't . . You did!" Mary squealed.

"Oh do shut up, Mary. I'm not going to talk about it other than to say it was fantastic. Now would you please leave me alone?"

Mary watched her friend closely. "Molly, I am just going to ask this once. Knowing your former lack of experience, tell me you used protection? I'm just asking as a concerned friend and professional."

Molly gave her friend an exasperated nod. "Yes, Auntie Mary, we used condoms and I have an appointment with my doctor for contraceptive consultation in two weeks. Now can we change the subject?" As "Auntie Mary" giggled and concentrated on the delicious food. Molly squirmed again. They had been careful and used the condoms Sherlock had brought with him. They had been careful except for that one time . . .

They had dosed off in each other's arms. It had been wonderful; Molly loved the warmth and musky smell of his body. Later, she was never sure if it was Sherlock or she that had started it. She suspected it might have been her, but somewhere in the twilight of half sleep and half awake they had made love once again. Slowly, there was not hurry, the sweetness of it filling her soul and when she cried out in release it was in union with Sherlock's deep groan. Well, what was done could not be undone. They would just have to be more careful in the future. Molly's thoughts were jolted by Mary's gasp.

"Oh my, look at him! He's like a young Daniel Craig!" Mary exclaimed staring at the tall man who had just entered the room. Molly knew Mary had a penchant for good looking blond men. Mary had explained to Molly, she was deeply in love with John Watson, but she wasn't dead yet. Window shopping did not mean she was going to purchase anything. Molly sighed, glad to get off the subject of her sex life, and looked around curiously to see who had caught Mary's discriminating eye. Molly let out a small gasp and quickly buried her head in the desserts menu. Fortunately, the man was not looking in her direction. His eyes moved across the diners, pausing briefly at a table with and striking brunette and a ginger man. Then again at the table where a young blonde was sitting across from a dashing dark haired man of about forty. "Quick Molly, you're missing him! Look at those shoulders!" Mary crowed.

"Lower your voice, and don't say my name aloud." Molly hissed as she watched the man move across the room and seat himself at a table screened on three sides by tall hot house greenery. The person he joined was blocked from view by the greenery. Molly could see the side and back of the blonde man's head as he sat.

"What's going on? Do you know this man?" Mary whispered fiercely.

"Yes," Molly said shortly. "Now change seats with me, I don't want him to see me tonight." Molly whispered back.

The girls quickly exchanged sides and moved dishes. Molly heaved a small sigh of relief. If he happened to look up from where he was sitting across the room he would see the back of her head.

"Molly why are you acting this way and who is this man?" Mary demanded.

"His name is Gary Morris, and I work with him. He is the new pathologist at Bart's and he has been asking me out to dinner several times." Molly shuddered.

"And that's bad because? Oh wait I know, you're Sherlocked." Mary shook her head sadly. "Molly I like Sherlock and all, I mean he is John's best friend and I am truly trying to learn what makes the guy tick, but look at Gary. He's every woman's dream. Are you sure you don't want to at least go out to dinner with the guy?"

Molly shook her head. "There's something off about him. He reminds me of someone acting. I just don't trust him."

"Well," Mary giggled and pointed to the table I don't know who he is meeting, but you can see that he is holding hands with a man. Perhaps that's what you sensed about him!"

Molly frowned. Gary Morris was gay? What did that matter to her? "No," she told Mary. "That's not it. I'm not a homophobe. It's something else. Oh I just don't know." she sighed.

"Well now's your chance to maybe find out about what's going on," Mary grinned. "To get to the ladies, you will have to pass by on the screened side of their table. If you stop at that empty table, say to adjust your sandal. Who knows what your might hear? If they catch you, you can act surprised and invite them over for dessert. How simple is that? I dare you to do it!" Mary added as an extra incentive.

Molly nodded. She did want to know what Gary was up to, and as Mary said she could always act surprised to see him if she were caught listening. She stood up before she could change her mind and walked across the room and paused on the other side of the green leafy screen which divided the tables on both sides. She sat down in an empty chair and pretended to work the strap to her shoe.

" . . . not working." she heard Morris complain to his still hidden companion.

"Give it time, it will work." a calm voice answered.

"I don't understand how it will if things continue as they have been. I thought you said it was a sure thing."

"Trust me; I know the situation better than most. If you can move it up a notch, I can get pictures and make sure they are seen. You just need to work a little harder. It should be easy." The cultured voice paused, "After all, you are a very attractive man."

"I appreciate that, this isn't exactly my cup of tea you know," Molly heard Gary say in a low growl. "I am doing this for you. I expect to be rewarded."

"Oh you shall be my love; I have several ideas in mind already."

Molly hurried on to the ladies. Who was talking to Gary and what on earth was going on? Molly stood inside the toilet for several minutes trying to decide what to do. She needed to know what was going on. Were Gary and the mystery man involved in something sinister? Did it affect Bart's? What was the deal about getting pictures? Maybe if she went back to her table she could convince Mary to pass by the table on the other side and get a look at the other man.

Molly left the ladies and returned to her seat. The table where the two men had sat was empty.

"That was close!" Mary whispered. "The tall blonde guy just left. If you had been a few seconds earlier, you would have bumped into him."

"Did you see the man he was with?" Molly asked fiercely.

"No, he used the exit by the toilets." Mary answered. "All I saw was that he was tall, brown haired and wore a light brown suit."

"They were talking about some kind of secret agenda or something," Molly fumed. "If Morris is involved in something dodgy at Bart's I intend to find out. This could be serious.


	7. Calm Before the Storm

Chapter Seven - Calm Before the Storm

"His name is Malcom," Sherlock stated as he paced back and forth in front of the sofa at 221B. "School records indicate emotional problems. Apparently he was a bully and he had several sessions with the school psychologist about sexual harassment of female students as well."

John looked over the material Dimmock had provided. " He hasn't changed much since his school days," he remarked as he shuffled through the reports. "He has an ASBO for several accusations of workplace harassment and violence." Looking at another page he continued, "He hasn't been able to hold a job for any length of time, been on and off the dole most of his adult life."

"He was a weekly visitor to Pentonville Prison while his father was in residence." Sherlock observed. "Then about two weeks before Jacob Arnold dies of cancer, the visits stop and Malcom Arnold disappears. It's like he ceased to exist." Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. Malcom's last known residence had not produced anything to indicate where he had gone. Dimmock had not been pleased when he found out that Sherlock had gone on an evidence collecting mission on his own instead of turning the flat's address over to the authorities and allowing the police to handle the search. The D.I. had accused Sherlock of contaminating possible evidence and had threatened to kick the detective off the case if he tried a fool thing like that again. Dimmock refused to believe Sherlock's assurance that there was no evidence to contaminate. Things gotten so out of hand that even John's attempts at diplomacy failed. Sherlock had stomped away in a huff.

After the blow up with Dimmock, Sherlock contacted George Flinn. Flinn was the head of the underground group Sherlock had found useful in the past. Flinn's people functioned within the society of the homeless, but were an organized entity of anti-government dissidents. Flinn was ex-military and as such ran the group with a hard discipline and organization that both Sherlock and John appreciated. The last time Sherlock had worked with the group was when he was hunting down Moriarty's criminal associates. Flinn agreed to help Sherlock because Moriarty's people had destroyed several of Flinn's projects that conflicted with their plans.

Flinn was not so easily convinced this time. Jacob Arnold was a horrible serial killer, but had not hampered his people in any way. He knew nothing about the son Malcom. In his opinion, this was a case for the police.

"This matter is of no concern to me," Flinn told Sherlock flatly. "If I help you, what's in it for me?"

Sherlock stared at Flinn for a few seconds. "What if I could guarantee that all CCTV cameras in a four block area around your headquarters went down for twenty minutes at whatever day and time you desire?"

"You can do that?" Flinn asked incredulously.

"Yes."

"Could you do it. . . say, around certain government buildings?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "No. I'm not about to get accused of treason. Four blocks around your headquarters, one time only. Are you interested?"

"How about two or three times?" Flinn bargained.

Sherlock shook his head and smiled. "Once I do this, I will never be able to gain access to the controls again. It is only by accident that I have knowledge of how to do it. Mycroft will be livid with me when he discovers I blocked the cameras."

Flinn nodded. He knew all about Mycroft Holmes and his power within the British government. "Twenty minutes is the longest you can do this?"

"It might extend to thirty minutes, some of the people watching are a little lax, but I can only guarantee twenty. Mycroft tends to monitor the cameras frequently."

Flinn knew what Sherlock was offering was of great value to him. To be able to have free access to and from headquarters was not a thing to be treated lightly. He would be able to move large numbers of people in and out of the area unnoticed. He could arrange for supplies to come in and projects go out. It was worth the time and effort required to help Holmes. Besides, Flinn greatly admired the detective. That was high praise, he did not admire just anyone.

"What exactly do you need?"

Sherlock smiled. He had him now. He hadn't been sure when he had first met Flinn this evening. "I need to know the whereabouts of Malcom Arnold. Once I know that, I can handle it from there. When you have told me the location, you are free to give me the day and time you wish the cameras to deactivate."

Flinn nodded. "Seems reasonable." He held out his hand and the two men shook.

Back at Baker Street John listened with wide eyes as Sherlock explained his agreement with Flinn. "Sherlock, are you certain you want to do this? It sounds awfully like dealing with terrorists."

"No worries John," Sherlock tried to soothe his friend's concerns, " I've known Flinn for years. He's not into bombs or treason. He's the type of guy who goes after government conspiracies and shines a light on them. He's a whistle blower not a terrorist."

"Are you sure Mycroft will see the difference?"

"Of course." Sherlock snorted. "Mycroft won't appreciate government dirty laundry being hung out for everyone to see, but he knows that it's bound to happen from time to time."

Sherlock eyed John as his friend tapped away on his phone. "What are you doing now? We need to go over the files once more and pin some of the pictures up on the map on the wall."

"I'm texting Mary." John replied.

"Why?" Sherlock asked puzzled.

John looked up at his friend hovering over him. "Because we've been working nonstop on this case all day and I haven't had a chance to talk with her."

"You talk and call her a lot."

" I miss her." John explained quietly. He looked up at his friend frowning. "Sherlock Have you contacted Molly since all this started?"

"Molly knows I'm busy." Sherlock said loftily.

"That doesn't mean she wouldn't appreciate at least a text from you letting her know you are okay." John said in exasperation.

Sherlock stared at his friend. John had the oddest ideas some times. Why would Molly need him to tell her he was okay?

John heaved a huge sigh. Sherlock knew what that meant. Evidently he was missing something here. Perhaps it had to do with emotions? Molly and he were rather close now. Perhaps that meant he should contact her occasionally? He had pushed all thoughts of Molly away to a corner of his mind once this case had started. Could he bring those thoughts back and still function as well? Sherlock decided an experiment was called for. He pulled out his mobile and began tapping.

_John and I working late_

_Busy_

_SH_

He pressed the send button and started to put the phone into his pocket but hesitated. Something was not quite right about his text. He thought for a moment. Yes, it was short, but Molly would understand that he, unlike John who was still tapping away, preferred short concise texts. Perhaps, he realized, Molly would expect sentiment? He pulled the phone back out and quickly typed.

_Miss you_

_SH_

It wasn't long before his phone alerted him of an incoming text.

_Long day_

_I miss you too._

_Molly:)_

Yes, he realized, that was what was needed. Now he felt better. The funny thing was, he realized, he actually did miss Molly. He wondered what that meant.

ɸ

Jacob looked at his reflection in the mirror and smiled. It was fortunate that the face peering back looked at least ten years younger than his actual age of thirty-eight. Father always said he had a baby face. Now was the time to check out the potential college girls at the off campus bar. He knew with his acting abilities it shouldn't be too hard to make a pick up. This was the part he enjoyed the most. Narrowing down the field, choosing a target and moving in for first contact. His eyes glowed with anticipation. Sherlock and his girl Molly could wait. He needed the rush that came only with the hunt. Tonight he would find someone new. She would be beautiful and all his. He straightened his black leather jacket over his tee shirt and headed out the door. The night was young and full of potential.

ɸ

Three days later Sherlock stared at his mobile. Part of him wanted very badly to text Molly, but the rest of him was screaming that it was not a good idea. He would be setting a precedent that would be hard to ignore in future cases. He needed to keep Molly and his cases separate. Mixing the two would be a disaster. He would not be able to concentrate and analyze properly. The pro-Molly side of him argued back that John had gone over to Mary's and would probably stay there until Sherlock needed him again. This new irrational part of him argued that the case was becalmed in a murky sea of nothingness. No new clues. Nothing from Dimmock in the last three days, George Flinn was silent, and most of all he was bored. Besides he admitted in a small voice to himself, he missed Molly. He wanted to see her. He wanted . . . His thumbs hovered over the tiny keyboard, then began to rapidly tap out a message.

_Case is stalled_

_John at Mary's_

_Would you like to come over?_

_Movie?_

_SH_

He waited impatiently for several minutes. Why wasn't Molly answering? Was something wrong? Should he go to Bart's and make sure she was okay? Was that smarmy Morris bothering her? Sherlock actually found himself reaching for his coat when his mobile announced the incoming text. He impatiently punched his phone and read her reply.

_Sounds lovely_

_I'll bring takeaway_

_See you at 7_

_Molly:)_

Sherlock smiled. He wished that she could come over immediately, but perhaps she needed to finish up at the morgue first. He approved of her dedication to her work.

Meanwhile Molly rushed about the morgue straightening up. She shoved the stack of reports she had intended staying late for into a drawer. Out of sight out of mind she told herself as she dashed for the door. If she hurried there was time to take a lovely bubble bath before going to Sherlock's flat. She quickly tapped out a text message and hit send.

_Could you possibly keep John at your place tonight?_

_Sherlock asked me to come over for a movie! :)_

_M_

She didn't need to wait long. The answer came almost immediately.

_No problem_

_I already planned to ask him to stay over_

_Have a good time _

_I would tell you to behave, but since I don't intend to myself,_

_I won't bother being a hypocrite. :D_

_&M_

Molly sighed happily. Now to get home and to try out that new herbal scented bubble bath.

ɸ

Sherlock looked nervously at the clock, 7:02, Molly was late. He shuffled through the available film choices once more. Most were the action thrillers John enjoyed. There was one left over from the last time Mary had visited. It was an old black and white movie called _The African Queen_. He wasn't sure which African Queen it was about, but he did at least recognize the main actors; Humphrey Bogart and Katharine Hepburn. He hoped Molly would enjoy it. He glanced at his watch, 7:06. Where was she? He had pulled his mobile out to text her when he heard the doorbell downstairs.

Taking the stairs three at a time he rushed to open the door. Molly stood on the other side grinning.

"You're late!" he exclaimed and pulled her inside and up the stairs before Molly had a chance to reply. Once inside the flat he took the takeaway out of her hands and carelessly dropped the bag to the floor. Molly's overcoat followed. She found herself entangled in Sherlock's arms being soundly snogged by the detective before she had a chance to say anything. She felt a giggle coming on and vainly tried to suppress it.

"What?" Sherlock asked as he drew back from the hysterical Molly.

"Oh, nothing," she laughed. "Um . . . Hello?"

Sherlock didn't bother replying. He smirked a little, then gathered her back into his arms. They didn't even make it to the bedroom. Later Molly decided to herself that making out on the living room floor was romantic sounding but a little overrated. She suspected she had a slight case of rug burn on her bum. They had just settled on the sofa with plates of luke-warm Chinese takeaway when the doorbell downstairs rang. Mrs. Hudson's voice could be heard greeting the visitor.

"Rather late for Mrs. Hudson to have guests." Sherlock remarked. Then they both heard the distinctive squeak of the stairs leading up to 221B. Molly gave a small groan, stood and hurriedly started straightening her clothing as Sherlock buttoned his shirt and tucked it into his pants. He turned before opening the door and allowed his glance to sweep over Molly one last time. His eyes widened and he silently pointed to something behind her on the sofa. Molly turned and gasped. She quickly stuffed the bra under the cushions and gave Sherlock a trembling smile.

At the knock Sherlock swung the door open. From her angle, Molly couldn't see who was there, but she tensed as she saw Sherlock stiffen for a moment, then relax into almost a slump. Very unSherlock, she thought. Then she got a glimpse of who was standing in the doorway.

"Hello Mummy, do come in." Sherlock said in a resigned tone to the tall elegantly dressed woman in the doorway.

Marie Holmes Lefleur gave her son a peck on the cheek. "Still slumming I see." she said as she glanced around the flat. "I spoke with your landlady just now and she assures me you are quite comfortable in your surroundings." Marie gave a sniff. "At least it's better than the previous place. Her eyes lighted on Molly who was still standing quietly by the sofa.

"Mother, this is Doctor Molly Hooper. Molly, my mother Marie Lefleur." Sherlock formally introduced.

Molly moved over to stand beside Sherlock. "I'm pleased to make your acquaintance." Molly said, copying Sherlock's formal introduction. She held out her hand and Marie lightly clasped it.

As Molly dropped her hand Sherlock took it in his own and squeezed gently. He continued to hold her hand as his mother looked about the room. She abruptly turned and looked directly at her youngest son. "You were right Sherlock, Jean Lefleur was everything you said he was and I was too blind to see it for myself. I have been an arrogant, foolish old woman and I hope you will find it in yourself to forgive me. I need to talk with you," she went on, " but I can see this is not a good time. Perhaps you will visit me tomorrow?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but Molly interrupted. "It's okay, Mrs. Lefleur. I have to be at work early tomorrow any way. Please stay." Molly smiled at Sherlock, "Text me tomorrow? Please?" Molly picked up her coat and quietly slipped out the door.

Marie Lefleur watched her son. Sherlock made a move to stop Molly from leaving, but glanced at his mother and remained still. They both listened as her steps echoed down the stairs.

"What's going on Mummy?" Sherlock asked.

"I need your forgiveness," Marie stated quietly, "and I want to set things right."


	8. Shadows of the Past

Chapter Eight - Shadows of the Past

"Come in Mummy, sit down. I'll make tea."

Sherlock moved to the kitchen. The counters were cluttered with scientific equipment and experiments in progress, but the table had been cleared and scrubbed in anticipation of Molly's visit. The only thing remaining on the table was his microscope.

Making good tea was an exacting process. Sherlock did not often bother. John was the tea maker, but he did know how to properly brew a good cuppa when he chose. He filled the kettle, and lit the burner on the stove. Opening the cabinet to the side of the stove, he searched and found the loose leaf tea. No teabags for Mummy. The tea, the one John and he saved for company, was an exclusive brand with a subtle hint of mint. From a high shelf in the corner cabinet, he took down the good china teapot and it's matching cups and saucers. Sherlock hesitated a moment looking at the cup in his hands. The last time it had been used was when Moriarty had paid him a visit after his mock trial. He shook his head slightly, the cups were porcelain and had been well washed since their last use. Nevertheless he carefully scrubbed and rinsed them anew, washing imaginary germs down the drain. He preheated the teapot with hot tap water, allowing it to warm the pot until the water on the stove came to a boil. Quickly pouring out the hot tap water, he spooned tea leaves into the warmed pot and filled it with freshly boiled water. Not over boiling the water was essential to a good cup of tea. Over boiled water lost oxygen, causing the tea to taste flat. As he turned to place the teapot and cups onto a tray, he was surprised to see that his mother had taken a seat across the table.

"Wouldn't you feel more comfortable in the lounge?" he asked.

"This is fine Sherlock. I see your tea making skills have improved over the years." Mummy said with a small smile as she poured milk into the bottom of her cup before Sherlock poured the tea.

Sherlock's mouth quirked. "If you are referring to the tea I made for you when I was five, I quite agree. Hot tap water from my ensuite did not brew very well I imagine."

"It was delicious," she disagreed. "Actually I was thinking of the time you came home from uni and insisted on adding marijuana leaves into the mix," she smiled.

Sherlock had the grace to look slightly uncomfortable. "Ah, well, I suppose I do make a better cup now." He looked his mother in the eye. "Those days are behind me now."

"Thank God," mummy murmured as she took a sip and accepted the chocolate biscuit Sherlock offered.

"Doctor Hooper is quite lovely." Mummy said.

Sherlock eyed his mother warily and did not respond.

"I understand she was quite helpful during your recent trying times."

"Yes."

"She's in love with you, you know."

No response.

"Do you love her?" At Sherlock's expression, she laughed and said, "Humor me Sherlock I only want what is best for you."

"I care for her," he admitted. "Love her? Why would I want to indulge in a crippling emotion that clouds reality?"

Marie LeFleur gazed sadly at her son. "I wish I could make you understand that to love someone is a strength, not a weakness."

"Did you love Father?

She looked at Sherlock steadily. "I did not love Vincent Holmes. I respected him, admired him, and was loyal to him at least until he indicated he was no longer interested in what I felt for him. Love for you and Mycroft is what carried me through the most trying time of my life," she said simply.

They sat in silence for a while and slowly sipped their tea.

"Why are you here Mummy?" Sherlock finally asked.

Marie LeFleur sighed and looked at her son. "This is very difficult for me Sherlock. Please be patient with me." She sat for a moment longer then drew a deep breath and began to talk.

"Fleur is dead," she stated baldly. Marie Holmes LeFleur always called her second husband by his nickname.

"I know," Sherlock answered. "I saw the notice while I was in France. I couldn't do anything about it, I was dead at the time you know."

Marie sighed. "Do you have any idea what that did to me? Children should never precede their parents in death."

"It was necessary," Sherlock answered.

"So Mycroft insists, still I had barely gotten over the news of your passing, by suicide no less, when I was confronted with Fleur dying and leaving me in a horrible mess. Life has been very difficult."

Sherlock did not reply. He studied his mother. When had she become so pale and thin? Seeing her papery skin and wispy white hair he suddenly realized for the first time she was old. When had that happened?

"You were right Sherlock. Fleur was a selfish wastrel, we hadn't been married six months before he was wanting to borrow money using Château de Vert as collateral, and in spite of your warning, I let him. Things were up and down between us over the years, but I loved him and at least I wasn't alone." Marie stared at her son, guilt and sorrow showed on her once beautiful face. "Then the economy collapsed and Fleur's investments suffered even more than most. On top of all that, we had three bad years of wine production at the Château. We were just beginning to recover when he died and I discovered that the château was heavily mortgaged and payments to the bank were behind six months." Marie LeFleur sighed and took a sip of tea.

"It's gone Sherlock. I wasn't able to save it. I had always planned for the Chateau to go to you after my death. Mycroft as the eldest son has the Holmes estate as is proper, and you would have had your Grand-mere's Château. I was able to save the house in Leon and the one in Spain, but everything else is gone, except my house in London of course. I am so sorry, please forgive me for not listening to you and Mycroft. I should have at least made sure the Château was protected. I thought about signing it over to you at the time, but with your history of drug abuse and erratic behavior I felt it was not wise. Forgive me." she said again.

"What would I want with a vineyard in France?" He forced himself to block out the picture of the beautiful rows of vines, the smell of fermentation as the wine was processed. His Grand-mere's lovely house where he had spent six happy years of his childhood. He thought of his wonderful Grand-mere and his time in the company of the grounds keeper, Paul Sargon. He looked at his distressed mother and said, "Everything I have ever wanted is here in London." He watched her face. He could tell she did not believe him. What could he say to make her feel better? What would John or Molly say? He hesitated, then he noticed her hands on the table. They were shaking a little. Without thinking he reached across and clasped them in his own hands. Her hands were cold and so fragile. He surprised himself as words seemed to flow out of his mouth.

"Did you care for him?" he asked.

Marie looked up into her youngest son's eyes and smiled. "I was fond of him, he made me laugh again. He was so French," she said as if that explained everything. "How could I not love him? Even when we fought, it was never for long."

Sherlock gave his mother's hands a squeeze. "Then it was worth it. Your happiness is more important than a few bottles of wine and a dusty old house."

"Then you do forgive me?"

"There is nothing to forgive," he said. "We are family."

Marie LeFleur sat quietly and sipped her tea. She was surprised by her youngest son's reaction to the news she had just given him. She had expected looks of disgust and shouting at the very least. She looked at him. He was different, more settled, mature. Perhaps everything he had been through had been for the best. The news she had been receiving from Mycroft held merit. It was time to tell Sherlock everything.

"There is something else I must tell you," she said quietly. "You may find it not so easy to forgive as the loss of the Chateau. I should have told you years ago, but there never seemed to be a good time and I'm not sure this is a good time either."

"Then why tell me? If it's something that is years old, surely there is no rush. Mummy, I can see that you are upset. We can talk about whatever you wish to say at another time." Sherlock looked at his mother in concern. She didn't look well.

"No, I will do this now," she said. "I am not so young, and I am unwell. I want to do this before something happens and it is too late."

"How are you unwell? Do you need a specialist?" The cold hands and frailty took on sharper meaning. "Have you told Mycroft?"

"Yes, yes. All that can be done has been done. My heart is not strong. I have sufficient medication to allow me some comfort. When one is old as I am you must expect body parts to wear out."

"You climbed all those steps to the fla,." Sherlock said in a concerned voice.

Marie waved her hand. "It is nothing. We digress from what I want to say. I want to tell you about your father."

"There is no need."

Marie cocked her head to the side and frowned at him in a way that was so reminiscent of Mycroft that Sherlock almost laughed. He wondered if any of his facial expressions matched his mothers.

"Sherlock, pay attention," she said sternly. "This is not easy for me to say. I am not proud of some of the things I have done in the past, but I want you to know that even though what I have done was wrong I have no regrets." She took another sip of tea.

"Vincent Holmes was not an easy man to live with," she continued. "Our marriage was a matter of convenience. He needed a wife with social skills and I needed a husband to provide the life I wanted." She waved her hand as Sherlock started to interrupt. "For a time, it was good. We never fought, Vincent had his work, his mistresses on the side and occasionally a man or two." She paused at Sherlock's expression.

"You didn't know he was bisexual?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No, but thinking about it, I'm not actually surprised."

Marie nodded. "Things like that were closely guarded secrets then. It was after Mykie was born that the rot set in. Vincent was drinking more. The cold war was at it's peak and he was under a lot of pressure. Sometimes he would be gone for months and I would not know if he was dead or alive. I became difficult to appear happy and satisfied with my life." Marie sighed. "Most of our problems were my fault. I knew what I was signing up for when I married Vincent, but I grew tired of being a prim figurehead. I wanted things that other wives had. Mykie was a blessing, but I wanted adult companionship. Vincent couldn't understand that. When he was home he wanted to relax in his den and smoke endless cigars. He didn't understand or probably even care that I was bored and wanted more from life. I said yes to every committee that needed a member just to get out of the house. Then I decided that if it were okay for my husband to be unfaithful what did it matter if I were also? It was the height of women's liberation after all. "

"Your father," she hesitated a long moment then tried again. "Your father is not Vincent Holmes." She paused to allow her statement to sink in and was somewhat surprised when Sherlock looked back at her steadily and said.

"I know Mummy. I have known for a long time."

"How?" Marie said in an amazed voice.

Sherlock shrugged. "Take a look at me Mummy. Except for the dark hair, do I look like anyone in the Holmes or Vernet families? If you go back three generations of family portraits there is no resemblance to be found. I know, I checked it out as a child. Even the fact that my hair is curly when everyone else's is straight points to the fact that something is amiss in the gene pool."

Marie LeFleur sighed. Sherlock acted nonchalant, but she knew her son was upset. She reached out to touch his hands again half expecting him to draw away in distaste. He surprised her by squeezing her hands once more.

"Why don't you let me tell you what I know already and you can fill in the spaces. It will save time." he said.

Marie nodded.

"I first realized something was wrong when I was five," Sherlock said. "I was looking up a word in the dictionary one day when nanny Alys asked what I was doing. I told her I had heard Father talking angrily to someone on the phone and that he had called me a little cuckoo."

"I remember that nanny Alys laughed oddly, and then reassured me that a cuckoo was a delightful little bird that the German woodcarvers put into their wonderful clocks. She said the cuckoo made such a loud and distinctive sound that people always knew what time it was. My father calling me a cuckoo must mean he thought I was rather a noisy little fellow. She distracted me by offering to accompany me outside to play my favorite game of Pirate captures the nanny and so I thought no more about it except to file it away in my mind fort."

Sherlock paused to take a sip of his tea, he stood and refilled his mother's cup then sat down and continued.

"The next time was about a year later. I was bored. It was raining outside and nothing appealed to me inside. I decided to wander about the house. I went to the music room. I knew there was a baby grand piano there and that I was not supposed to touch it. I sat down and soon discovered that I could actually play. It was wonderful! It was the first time I realized I had a gift for music. About an hour later, Father came into the room shouting for you to stop playing the damn piano. I remember the shock and rage on his face when he saw that it was I at the piano. He nearly smashed my fingers as he slammed the cover over the keys and forbid me to ever touch it again. The next day the piano was gone."

"Oh Sherlock," Marie's voice trembled. "I never knew. I thought he got rid of the piano because of me."

"My real father has something to do with music?" Sherlock asked.

"He was a brilliant man. He was studying to be a concert pianist. I met him at one of the many social functions I attended at that time. He was much younger than I. Today I would be called a cougar. Back then there were less civil terms for women who chased men twenty-five years younger than they. There was just something about him that drew me to him. The music he played was magnificent and what he composed was awe inspiring. If he had lived, he would be world famous by now."

"What happened to him?" Sherlock steeled himself to hear that he had grown tired of his older lover and had moved on..

"We were going to run away together. I did not know it at the time, but I was already several months pregnant with you. William had one more concert in Cardiff and then we were off to the continent where he was to study in Vienna. On his way back to London there was an accident on the train. It was a very cold winter and the heating unit in the train car William was riding in malfunctioned. All twelve people in the car suffocated from carbon monoxide poisoning and died."

"Very unusual," Sherlock said.

"Yes. Well, at the time I accused Vincent of setting the whole thing up. That was the kind of thing he did every day, but there was no proof that it was anything other than an accident."

Sherlock sat quietly. Had Vincent Holmes murdered twelve innocent people in a jealous rage? Probably. Mycroft could possibly find out. But did he want to ask his brother to find out if his father had killed Sherlock's? Sherlock sat back in his seat with a sigh. What a mess!

"Let it be. Sherlock," Marie advised. "It all happened over thirty years ago and nothing but harm can come from investigating. I thought very hard before I told you about the circumstances involving the train accident. Maybe I should have glossed over the whole thing."

"I'm glad you told me Mummy. I have only one question."

"Yes?"

"What is my father's name?"

Marie smiled sadly. "You have his eyes, you know," she said. After a small pause she said, "Your father's name was William Trent Sherlock Bannister."

Marie LeFleur took a large envelope out of her purse and handed it to Sherlock. "This is for you. I have collected everything I could find out about him over the years."

Inside were newspaper clippings, ticket stubs, and several hand written pages in Marie's elegant script. There was also three photographs. The large black and white promotional photo showed William at the piano. The second photo was a casual color snapshot of his mother and William standing in someone's yard. They were smiling and William had his arm about his mother's waist. The last was a closeup of William's face. Sherlock felt himself suck in a deep breath at the sight of the close-up photo. Except for the outdated clothing he could have been looking at a photo of himself.


	9. Expectations

Chapter Nine - Expectations

Sherlock stared at the photo of William Bannister and then looked into his mother's sad eyes.

"You are so very like him," she said. "He, like you, was different, a bit difficult to communicate with sometimes, content to be in his own company. He was gentle and caring, but always a little standoffish. I loved him with all my heart. William was a genius. He excelled in mathematics and chemistry in Uni, but chose to devote his talent to the piano."

Marie looked at her son. "I went through some very difficult times with Vincent when you were small. I should have been there for you after the incident with the tutor. I have not been the best Mother, but I have always loved you."

Sherlock made more tea. Mother and son sat in companionable silence, each deep in their own thoughts. After a considerable amount of time had passed Marie Lefleur cleared her throat. "I talked to Mykie recently," she said, "it appears your brother and you are still not getting along."

Sherlock snorted but said nothing.

Marie sighed. "I wish you two would just stop. Your brother only has your best interests at heart."

"My brother doesn't have a heart."

"Yes, he does," Marie corrected gently. "It's just hidden away and hard to see. I blame Vincent for that. He was ever working on Mycroft, grooming him for the glorious Holmes service to her Majesty."

Sherlock cast a belligerent scowl and said nothing for a few moments, then burst forth angrily, "He sank my ship!"

Marie shook her head wearily. "Sherlock, that was years ago. If you remember, he got you out of that horrid prison. You would be still there if he hadn't intervened. I never understood what made you want to hang out with such scum in the first place."

"They weren't scum!" Sherlock clarified huffily, he hesitated, then went on,"well some of them weren't. They were pirates." He said in a voice that seemed to try to justify his association with them.

Marie wisely chose to change the subject. Dragging up Sherlock's idealistic antics during his rebellious University years was not going to serve any purpose now. That battle would have to be fought another day.

"I've been out of touch recently," she said, changing tactics before Sherlock could become unreasonable. "Are you aware if Mykie has anyone important in his life? I do so want to see you boys settled before I die."

Sherlock looked up sharply. "What have the doctors told you Mummy?"

"Oh nothing that need concern you," Marie said with a slight wave of a thin hand. She sighed quietly. "I am just concerned about poor Mykie. It's not good for him to be so alone."

"I can assure you, Mycroft is doing just fine Mummy," Sherlock answered with a smirk.

"Oh?"

"He does not wont for company," He assured her.

"But no one permanent?" Marie inquired.

"I wouldn't say that exactly," he said. "Mycroft has his faithful P.A. by his side to fulfill his every need." Sherlock grinned. "Honestly Mummy you would be able to see it yourself if you'd stay in London long enough."

Marie nodded thoughtfully. "Perhaps I do need to remain in London longer than I have planned. It appears your brother has not been as forthcoming as I had supposed." Marie tapped her fingers in irritation. "You are certain?"

"They've been going at it like rabbits for some time now," Sherlock replied blandly.

"Language Sherlock!" his mother reproved.

Sherlock just smiled and took a sip of his tea.

"And what are your plans for Doctor Hooper?" Marie inquired shifting the discussion to her youngest son. "I would so like to see everything settled before Christmas.

"Plans? Why should I have plans?"

"You are not going to just lead the girl along are you? You've known her for years and in light of recent developments I would think you would be at least considering your options." Marie said sternly.

"What recent developments?" Sherlock asked.

"You are not the only one who can observe and deduce, Sherlock Holmes." She gave himthe_ "don't mess with me" _look only mothers can give. "Dr. Hooper is good for you. You should consider making an honest woman out of her."

"Molly Hooper is one of the most honest people I know," Sherlock replied smoothly.

Marie sighed and stood up gathering her purse. "I can see it's time I went home. I'm not as strong as I once was. Help me to the car please, Sherlock." Marie wavered slightly as she stepped toward the door. Sherlock stood and rushed to his mother's side. Putting her arm through his, he gently helped the elderly woman down the stairs and out to the waiting car.

Marie gazed up at her son and placed a trembling hand against his cheek. "Don't make her wait too long Sherlock. She might surprise you one day and just walk away." Marie moved into the back seat of the limo and Sherlock closed the door. He watched as it quietly pulled out and moved silently down the street.

Inside the car, Marie Holmes LeFleur made herself comfortable and congratulated herself on the evenings events. She was very pleased that Sherlock had not been upset or shocked about her loss of the chateau or the truth about his father. A very welcome reprieve indeed.

She hadn't planned on bringing up her sons' relationships tonight, but it had evolved rather smoothly into the conversation and she had taken advantage of the opportunity. Hopefully she had given the wretched boy a nudge in the right direction.

She knew she ought to feel at least slightly guilty, she had promised Mycroft she would wait until after Christmas before getting involved, but really, a mother just needs to see those she loves taken care of.

Marie patted her hair with a remarkably steady hand. Her doctor would have been surprised at her earlier decline in health. He had assured her at her most recent checkup that she was as strong as a horse and most likely to outlive her uncle Phineas who had died at the ripe age of one hundred seven.

ɸ

It was a warm night for so late in the year. Little puffs of dust swirled about the street as Jacob strolled near the university. Students were easy prey, so naive and trusting, so sure of their own invulnerability, always so sure that death would never touch them. Jacob smiled as he mingled, a silent predator, eyes open for an opportunity.

Crowds pushed and shoved in a genial way as they wove up and down the streets and alleys celebrating a night of freedom and fun. In groups of two, three or four, many of them wound their slightly tipsy ways from one bar to the next. There were a lot of places to choose from. The businesses clearly catered to the young and boisterous. Rhythmic thumping poured from open doorways simulating a carnival atmosphere as people entered or left. Loud voices and raucous laughter filled the air and the smell of alcohol permeated everything like an invisible fog.

Choosing a particularly dilapidated establishment, Jacob slipped inside, ordered and received a beer from the bar and sat at a table in the corner to watch. He was correct in choosing this run down place. The security was not up to standard. The one bouncer, leaned against a wall, appeared bored and ignored the carousing revelers that surrounded him. After watching for thirty minutes Jacob saw who he was looking for. Two tables to his left, a pretty blonde was arguing with her date. Their heated talk was lost in the surrounding noise but it was easy to see the girl was extremely upset. The heavy scowl on her date's face left no doubt things were not going well. Suddenly, the date stood up and shoved his chair into the table. Leaning over the girl, he shouted above the clamor loud enough for Jacob to make out his cruel words.

"That's it, you bitch, I've had enough of your sniveling and whining. If I want to see other girls I will. You can find your own ****ing way home!" He stalked out of the bar, not bothering to notice the shocked and mortified look on the girl's face.

Jacob watched closely. The girl sat quietly at the table, tears streaming down her face. No one approached her. He stood up, moved to her table and sat down, a look of concern and sympathy plastered to his face. The girl jumped and made to stand and leave.

"Please don't go," his look of concern clear to anyone who looked at him. "I just noticed how badly he treated you and wanted to say that no one as lovely as you should have to put up with someone like him." His face formed a perfect picture of sympathy.

"He told me I was the only one," the girl sobbed. "And then I find out he's cheating on me with not one but two other girls." Jacob reached across the table and lightly squeezed her fingers. He listened attentively to her slightly inebriated chatter. Her date was right, she did whine too much. He didn't mind though, soon enough she would say only the things he wanted to hear. All his girls did. It was a simple matter of training and control. Concentrating on his look of empathy she did not notice him slip the tablet into her drink, or see the slight bubbling as it dissolved in the alcohol. A few minutes later no one paid attention as the man with the considerate look on his face helped his date as they left the bar. If anyone noticed her slight stagger, well they probably assumed she had one too many drinks that night.

ɸ

Molly grimaced slightly as she saw the tall figure of Gary Morris opening the door to autopsy room B. She quickly looked down to hide her expression and schooled her face into a look more appropriate for a professional colleague. She meant what she had said to Mary the other night at the Gnarly Apple. She was determined to find out what was going on between Gary and his mysterious dinner partner.

"Hi Gary," she smiled looking up from her third autopsy of the day. "Just coming in?"

"Yes," he smiled in return. He crossed the remaining space and stood beside her peering down at the obese woman on the slab.

"Hmm," he said with a smirk to his lips. "Cause of death, one too many fairy cakes?"

Molly gritted her teeth but continued to smile. She hated the way some people thought anyone a few pounds overweight was fair game for cruel jokes. Not even the dead deserved such treatment. The poor woman on the slab before her was not that heavy.

Ignoring Gary's jab, she smiled brightly. "Actually, the poor dear fell down a flight of steps. The question is, was it on her own, or was she pushed?"

"My money is on pushed. Just look at her, overweight, thinning hair of an uncontrolled diabetic," he glanced at the pile of clothing on a nearby table. "And absolutely no fashion sense." He sneered slightly. "Her husband should be acquitted on grounds of self-defense."

"She didn't have a husband. She was found by a neighbor who was concerned when she didn't show up for bridge night," Molly sighed. "People who live alone are always at risk from accidents."

"Is that what happened here?" Gary asked in a bored voice.

"Probably," Molly answered. "But I still have a way to go before I can determine it for sure. Do you have a heavy schedule today? " she asked, changing the subject.

"Not particularly, if nothing else shows up I may be able to get caught up on my reports." Gary looked at her curiously. "Why do you ask?"

"Oh, I just thought if you weren't too busy perhaps you would like to go to the canteen for coffee? I should be finished here in about thirty minutes." Molly smiled.

Gary frowned slightly. "Aren't you afraid your detective boyfriend would object?"

"Sherlock?" Molly laughed. "He's busy on a case. He won't know I'm alive until it is solved. It's not a date Gary, it's only coffee in the canteen. I would like to get to know you better. There never seems to be time to talk during working hours. What do you say?"

"That would be great. I'll see you there at say half past ten?" He grinned happily and strode off toward the door.

As soon as he left Molly waited a few moments then followed. Stopping in front of the office next to Gary's she could see through the window in the door that he was sitting at his desk with his phone in his hand. Quickly she inserted the narrow bit of metal into the keyhole of the office next to Gary's. Dr. Phillips was off duty and would never know she had jimmied the lock. St. Bart's was an old hospital and the upgrading of the locks on the office doors had been overlooked for years. Molly knew they were scheduled to be replaced as a result of the ongoing efficiency studies led by the infamous Pauline Rodrick. Mary had complained to Molly just the other day that Maternity was scheduled for interrogation next, and had joked that the mothers were going to have to take a number and queue up to deliver in the interests of efficiency. Molly was just glad that no one had gotten around to changing the locks on the doors yet. They were similar to the one's in the all girl's school Molly had attended and so were easy for her to pick. She slipped into the office and quickly knelt beside the vent. Straining, she could just make out Gary's deep voice in the next room.

". . . meeting in about twenty minutes in the canteen. Yes I know." Gary's voice became a little impatient. "If that's what you want, yes . . yes. . well I'll try, but she has been pretty resistant so far. Personally, I think this is a lost cause, Mycroft." There was a long pause and then Gary spoke again. "Sorry, yes I'll see what I can do." There was no sound for a few moments then Molly heard a door close and saw the back of Gary's head pass the window in Dr. Phillip's door.

Molly waited, then when the hallway was clear she dashed back to autopsy room B where poor Ms. Beadley waited patiently. The dead were always patient. "Sorry dear," Molly spoke kindly to the cadaver. "I'll finish you up as soon as I can." She pulled the sheet over Ms. Beadley and took out her mobile and quickly sent a text to Sherlock.

_Are you busy_

_I have a puzzle for you_

_Do you know why your brother would be talking with Gary Morris about me and maybe you? _

_Molly_

There was a long pause then to Molly's relief her phone indicated an incoming text.

_I know exactly what is going on_

_SH_

"Thanks Sherlock I'm glad you know." Molly muttered in frustration Couldn't the man at least give her a hint? She quickly tapped out a second message.

_Am meeting Gary in fifteen m. in canteen to pump for info._

_Care to join us _

_Molly_

The reply came quickly this time.

_Stall him_

_On my way_

_SH_

Molly grinned. This ought to be interesting.

ɸ

Molly purposely arrived at the canteen five minutes late, then dithered over what kind of biscuit she wanted with her coffee. Gary took it all in good grace and smiled cheerfully as they chose a table in the corner close to the door.

She was on her third fascinating Toby the cat story when Sherlock strode through the door.

"Oh look who just came in," Molly beamed. "Sherlock, I'm so glad you happened to pop by. You remember Gary Morris the new pathologist? I was just telling him about the time Toby got his head stuck in the mayonnaise jar and nearly suffocated before I could rescue him!"

Sherlock plopped into the vacant chair between Gary and Molly. He gave Molly a long look which she understood to mean follow my lead. She nodded slightly and waited. She didn't have a clue as to what he was going to do.

"Molly, coffee please, black two sugars." Sherlock said in a very stern voice.

Playing along Molly meekly scurried to do his bidding. Sherlock had asked her to get coffee for him hundreds of times, but something about the way he voiced this request was different. Very controlling. She looked back as she stood in line. Sherlock had scooted his chair closer to Gary. He was leaning forward, their two heads almost touching. Whatever Sherlock was telling him, Gary was clearly uncomfortable. He kept glancing at Molly and then back to Sherlock in a nervous kind of way. She crossed the floor and placed the coffee before Sherlock and waited. He glanced up and told her to sit down. Molly sat.

"Do you still have my riding crop?" Sherlock asked coolly looking her in the eyes.

Molly gulped. This was just not happening she told herself. Schooling her emotions she looked back and nodded.

"Molly," Sherlock said in a reproving voice.

"Yes, Sherlock, I have it in my office." Molly said submissively.

"Good." he said. "Bring it with you to the flat when you come over this evening. I have a feeling I will need it, and the handcuffs as well."

"Yes, Sherlock." Molly said in a very meek voice. She folded her hands and waited for further instructions. Peeking up she noticed that Gary's look had gone from discomfort to almost panic. Molly tried to focus on what Sherlock was saying but her eyes kept drifting back to the coffee cup he held. How did he manage to make holding a coffee cup so, well, erotic? She noticed Gary staring at the cup as well. Molly gave herself a small shake and concentrated on what Sherlock was saying.

"John and I occasionally have a few friends over to the flat for an evenings entertainment. Not during a case however, but perhaps you would be interested once this case is solved? I think you might find it fun. Molly has spoken highly of you and I know being new to town how important it is to meet the right people." Sherlock smiled warmly. There was nothing in the words that would indicate anything unusual, but they way he said them gave them an entirely different meaning.

"Well, I uh, . . " Gary clearly was struggling for words to form an answer to Sherlock's invitation.

"Right!" Sherlock said cheerfully as he stood and gave Gary's shoulder a squeeze. "I'll be in touch then." he said as turned to Molly.

"Isn't your break over Molly?" he asked sternly.

"Oh!" Molly gasped, "yes it is!" she turned to Gary and smiled weakly. "Thanks for the coffee Gary. It was loads of fun." Molly quickly fell in behind Sherlock and followed him to the door. Once in her office she collapsed into her chair and glared at Sherlock. "What in the hell was that all about?" she demanded in her most unmeeklike voice. "Why did you act like that?"

"Because it's fun." Sherlock grinned. "Oh Mycroft will realize its pure rubbish when he hears it but Gary believes every word! Did you see his face when I mentioned that John had been in the military and had specialized in fixing dislocated joints? I thought he was going to faint on the spot!"

"That wasn't very nice of you Sherlock." Molly tried to look severe but giggled instead. "He did turn a little green. You were positively wicked."

"Thank you."

"Why is Mycroft involved? Molly asked. " I don't understand."

Sherlock rolled his eyes but refrained from making a snarky remark. Something Molly appreciated greatly.

"Obviously Mycroft hired Gary Morris to flirt with you and to try and make me jealous in an attempt to make me further our relationship. What he didn't count on was the fact you absolutely couldn't stand Gary. So his feeble attempt failed

"But he did make you jealous Sherlock and we did ah . . . further our relationship," Molly pointed out.

Sherlock scowled. "Not really," he insisted. "Morris had nothing to do with it." Molly wisely kept her mouth shut. She waited a few moments and when it became clear that Sherlock was not going to explain further, Molly ventured a question.

"Why would Mycroft want to see our relationship develop? Why would he care one way or the other?"

"Because Mummy is behind all this." Sherlock explained in a resigned tone. "She is unwell and is obsessing about Mycroft and I being alone. She wants us to settle down. This was Mycroft's attempt to draw all her attention onto us so he can fade into the background."

"If Mycroft thinks he can get you to settle down he's a fool." Molly scoffed "You are not the settling down type Sherlock Holmes."

An odd look flitted across Sherlock's face briefly but disappeared as his mobile phone began to ring. He read the text and gave a shout of glee. "The case is on again Molly!" he crowed excitedly. "There's been another murder!"


	10. Clues Mistakes and More

**A/N Finally - A break in the huge, massive writer's block! Enjoy!**

Chapter Ten - Clues, Mistakes and More

The taxi ride to the crime scene took about twenty minutes, stopping only long enough to pick up John at Baker Street since it was on the way. They went over the events that preceded this latest murder. Sherlock's phone buzzed and he fished it out of his pocket, stared at the text, then replaced it in his coat.

"Anything new?" John asked.

"Maybe." Sherlock answered, but did not go into details. John shook his head. Sometimes Sherlock's reluctance to share information was maddening.

They arrived at the crime scene within twenty minutes. Dashing up the stairs of the seedy old hotel, they were greeted by Inspector Dimmock and two crime techs. The scene was eerily reminiscent of the previous murders. Once again a young blond haired woman was bound hand and foot to the bed by rough rope. Her mouth gagged by a handkerchief and blue Oxford silk tie. As Sherlock began to survey the room John growled in disgust. How could anyone be so sick? John had seen his share of terrible crime scenes, but these rose petal murders were especially heinous in his opinion. Sherlock observed John's reactions and frowned.

"Problem John?"

"Yes, Sherlock, I have a problem with all this! These young girls did not need to die like this; it's all such a waste!" John glared about the room then focused on his friend.

"Will complaining about it change anything for them John?" Sherlock calmly asked. "Or would it be less distressing to you if the girls were fat and ugly? Perhaps it would be easier for you if they were all men or . . ."

"You know what I mean!" John glared at him in disgust.. "Don't pretend you don't feel anything. I know you better than that."

Sherlock looked at John calmly and nodded. "Yes, but feelings should never get in the way of scientific observation and deduction. For instance, have you noticed there are four distinct differences in this crime scene?"

John frowned and looked carefully about the room. He began to notice small differences, the most obvious was the pile of clothing on the floor beside the bed. "He didn't take her clothing away with him." John pointed out.

"Good," Sherlock approved.

John looked again. "There are bloody footprints going over to the window. He must have heard something and wanted to check it out. Shouts or maybe a siren?" John looked at the girl on the blood soaked bed. " He put the rose on her like the others, but left the florist's box lying in the corner of the room." John walked over to the box and carefully inspected it. "The florist's label has been peeled away." He noted. "That's all." He stated and looked up at Sherlock.

Sherlock gazed at his friend frustration clear on his face. "That's only three, John," He growled. "What about the fourth?" The good doctor looked about again and shook his head in defeat.

Sherlock gave an impatient huff and said: "The note John? Where's the note? There's always a note."

Sure enough, John saw the small card with a poem that was always placed the victim's hands was missing. As he placed the florists box back on the floor he noticed a small sound of something shifting. He opened the box and held it open for Sherlock to see the small card lying inside.

_Scorned by your lover_

_Rescued by fate to be _

_Forever silent_

_Throughout eternity._

Sherlock flipped the card over and read what was on the back. Once again there was a personal message to him:

_Sherlock Holmes:_

_Death is not Idle. He who searches the depths of the soul claims his own._

"What does it mean?" John asked.

"I have no idea." Sherlock shrugged." I do know that something spooked our murderer. He panicked and ran, leaving behind valuable clues. Sherlock grinned happily. "Look, John." He bent down and pulled a shoe cover that was sticking out from under the bed. "He dropped this. From the residue on the inside of the shoe cover I will be able to narrow down his movements and perhaps even find where he is hiding. It's payday John! He's made mistakes! And I am going to track him down!"

- ɸ -

Later that night Jacob Arnold tossed and turned in his small bed in the snug room he had created in his hideout. He often had trouble sleeping. Memories of his childhood tended to surface in reoccurring nightmares.

"Malcolm! Have you learned your lesson yet?" Father's scream rang in Jacob's ears. He restlessly tossed in his sleep, vainly seeking to still the voice. Father's voice. Father was angry with him, again. Father wanted to punish him. Again.

"Leave me alone, don't hit me!" Jacob sobbed at the face hovering over him. "I'm sorry, Father, I'll try harder I promise. Don't hit me!"

"You'll do more than try Malcolm, You will be the smartest, the best, or I will beat some sense into you." Jacob Arnold screamed. "No son of mine is going to be bested by the sniveling brat of a posh diplomat! The Holmes boy did this work perfectly today and he is two years younger than you! I'll not have it!"

Jacob felt the blows that followed. Father had a heavy hand. God, he hated Sherlock Holmes! Father was always bragging how intelligent Sherlock was. Demanding Malcolm to be smarter, better. Nothing he did was good enough. Echoes of Father's rough voice ricocheted in his brain. Father always said the same thing as he punished him. "Malcolm, have you learned your lesson yet?" Malcolm restlessly stirred in his sleep. "Have you learned your lesson yet? Have you learned your lesson yet? Have you . . ."

Jacob awoke abruptly, his harsh gasping the only sound. He was alone in the dark. He felt the attack coming and struggled to sit up on the edge of the bed. The pressure in his chest increased as he realized he might not be able to take another breath. Flailing about as he panicked, he panted, trying to draw air in. This time, it was really bad. The air eluded him, refusing to enter his lungs. His mouth formed a 'O' shape to suck what oxygen he could in hoarse drawn out gasps in a vain attempt to breathe. It felt as if his throat and lungs had collapsed. He grew faint, he was going to pass out. This time he was going to die. _Breathe damn it!_, he shouted to himself in his head. Long dry hacking coughs ending in whistling breaths began to rack his body, the coughs so strong he gagged.

Slowly air began to enter his lungs. Whistling narrowly down his windpipe. He bent double, head level with his knees, coughing and gagging, drawing in small amounts of oxygen. The tightness in his chest began to decrease a little. He stood upright and staggered to the kitchen. Bent double over the kitchen table he continued to gasp as his breathing slowly began to recover.

He poured himself a whiskey to cut the phlegm that magically appeared in his throat. Damn, that was close. He cleared his throat repeatedly as the whiskey burned its way to his stomach. Fifteen minutes later found him still at the table forcing himself to breathe as deeply as possible. He sat and calmed himself until the burning in his chest was gone except for a repeating urge to clear his throat. He was in control he reminded himself. He was Malcolm no longer. He was Jacob, and Jacob held control. Jacob was strong and smart and resourceful. Jacob was never afraid. He was Jacob. He was Jacob. He was Jacob.

- ɸ -

Mycroft Holmes glared at Gary Morris's defiant face.

"He's not serious you know," Mycroft chided. "Sherlock and John and Molly are not actually engaged in the acts you are describing," he scoffed.

"It sounded real enough to me," Gary replied. "He even told me that they rented a playroom at an S&M club!"

"He's just pulling your leg. If you called his bluff he would cave. Sherlock is not interested in things like that. I promise you."

"Well I know for a fact that Molly Hooper has a riding crop in her desk at Bart's I saw it for myself when I went through her office." Gary replied.

Mycroft's eyes widened and he lifted his brows. "Interesting."

"Well, I'm sure there is a simple explanation," Mycroft soothed. "No need to become alarmed."

"I'm not alarmed!" Gary denied. "I just want to finish this. Your scheme to make Sherlock jealous is not working, it has never worked and I want out."

"Perhaps, you are right. I'll just have to come up with something else." Mycroft sighed. "You're sure about going to Vienna? If you wanted to stay I can find something local for you."

"I think it best If I make a clean break. You know I have loved working with you Mycroft, but it's time I moved on." Gary reached across the small table between them and grasped Mycroft's hand.

"I suppose it is for the best." Mycroft sighed again. "Anthea will miss you. We both will miss you," Mycroft said softly. The two men stood and embraced each other tightly. Gary Morris smiled, turned and walked away.

- ɸ -

Jacob placed the small card in the dead girl's hand and laid the long stem rose nearby on her stomach. The scene looked very much like the others. Blood had sprayed over everything in the near vicinity of the body. He carefully took pictures with his mobile phone. Scotland Yard and Sherlock were still nosing about the murder of the girl from the pub and he had already killed again. He told himself it was because he had been so rudely interrupted at the last scene. How was he to know the police cars that roared to the front of his hotel were responding to a crime committed across the street? He had panicked. He was so upset that he had not enjoyed her death as much as the others. Jacob tried to convince himself it was just because of the panic and turmoil that day that caused him to hunt again so soon, but if he were honest, he knew that he was changing. He needed to kill more frequently. He felt an ever increasing urge to create violence. It was like a giant pump was filling him, building pressure, forcing him to act. At the same time he recognized that something was missing, he felt hollow. He needed more. He was spending less time with the girls. He no longer wanted to woo them or care for them. He hadn't even touched the last one, hadn't even wanted to. Killing became his only focus. He still felt the thrill of power afterwards but the empty hunger returned almost immediately. It was not enough. It was never enough.

It was time Sherlock Holmes and he got together. It was time to take control of the genius detective and show him who the smart one really was. That, he told himself, was what he needed. Once Holmes was out of the way he would not need to prove himself. He would be able to choose his girls and enjoy them again. Jacob slowly walked to the bed, glanced down at his work of art, then placed his latest poem and message to Sherlock Holmes in the girl's hands beside the rose.

_Oh the beauty of sweet death_

_The halt of onward time._

_Eyes so brown that once were yours_

_Soon only to be mine._

_Sherlock: This is a game changer. Are you ready?_

Jacob quietly crossed to the door, removed his shoe covers and cover-all. Placing them in his small suitcase, he left and closed the door behind him. His head was full of plans to lure Sherlock Holmes into his grasp. In a dark mood, Jacob failed to notice the man across the street start to follow him.

- ɸ -

Ten o'clock in the morning. John Watson lay on his back and stared at the crack that ran across the ceiling over his head. The narrow line wiggled its way from the far corner to over his head. He idly wondered how secure the old plaster was and whether it would fall on their heads anytime soon. Upstairs in the flat above someone slammed a door and John watched as small particles of plaster drifted down and landed on the duvet covering them. Not long, he thought as he stared at the crack and could have sworn that it was wider than a few minutes ago. Mary's flat was rubbish. It was a great location, but the place was literally falling apart. She needed to find a new one. He let his mind drift. The couple in 221c were moving out, Maybe he could convince Mary to move there. Mrs. Hudson had renovated it and it was now cheerful and mold free. Maybe he would rent it and ask Mary to share it with him.

He smiled as Mary snuggled closer and gave a small sigh of contentment in her sleep. He turned his head and watched her lovely face. He was so lucky, Mary had made the difference in his life. Only he knew how close he had come to giving into the darkness after Sherlock's "death". If it hadn't been for Molly's friendship and later Mary's love, he wouldn't be here today. He knew it for a fact. He owed so much to Mary Morstan and he realized suddenly that he wanted more than a flat mate. He wanted to spend the rest of his life showing her how much he loved her. John Watson was a traditional sort of man at heart. True he had had many lovers over the years and had even lived with several, but he had never felt for any of them what he felt for Mary. She made him happy. She made him want to be a better man so that he could make her happy. He wanted . ..he wanted to marry her and live with her forever. His eyes opened wide in shock. Where had that idea come from? He shifted in the bed and watched as Mary slept on. Twenty minutes passed quickly as John thought about his love for Mary. Marriage was good. He could totally see them married. The more he thought about it the more he liked the idea. He knew this wasn't a spur of the moment idea, it had been swimming around in the back of his mind for weeks. He looked over, she was so beautiful, even with her hair all mussed up. He raised up so he was partially leaning over her. At that point the source of his affection rolled over and jabbed her elbow into his nose.

"Ouch! Jeeze, Mary, don't kill me!" John grumbled. Mary opened her eyes and grinned lazily into his eyes.

"Sorry," she laughed. "If your nose didn't take up so much space, I wouldn't bump into it so much! Good morning love, why the serious look?"

John rolled suddenly and Mary found herself pinned to the mattress. She stared up into his deep blue eyes. She frowned, He was staring so intently into her eyes and he had an odd look to his adorable face.

"Uh, John, what's the matter?" Mary breathed.

"Me Mary?" John asked softly.

"What?" Confusion covered Mary's face.

"Me Mary?" John repeated.

"Of course I'm your Mary," she reassured him. "Are you okay? You seem a little nervous. I didn't hurt more than your nose did I?"

John stared at Mary for a few moments in bewilderment before realization of what he had said clicked in his brain. He sank onto his back and put his hands over his face in embarrassment. "I can't believe I said that!" he mumbled.

He straightened his shoulders and jumped off the bed and circled around to Mary's side. Mary sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed and looked at John in alarm as he sank to his knees before her.

"What's wrong John? Are you alright? You're not making sense. Are you feeling alright?" Mary asked in an anxious tone.

John stared up at her solemnly. His face red with embarrassment, he took a deep breath and tried again. Slowly, pausing between each word so that there could be no mistake, John Watson asked the most important question of his life.

" Will you marry me?"

Mary stared for a second, then looked him in the eyes and said,

"Will I."

If possible John's face became even redder. The tips of his ears almost purple.

"Will I." Mary stated again calmly, then broke into a huge grin." Oh John," she laughed, "of course I WILL marry you!" Mary leaped into his arms and they both went crashing to the floor.

- ɸ -

Molly Hooper hummed a happy tune as she breezed through the back exit at Bart's. Her thoughts were on making a mental shopping list. She wanted to make Chicken Kiev, fresh peas and a salad for this evening's meal. She planned to invite Mary over as soon as she got home.

The sidewalks were teeming with people and Molly did not notice the man walking closely behind the group of noisy teens. As the teenagers passed her the man broke away and sidled up to Molly. She felt a sharp sting of a needle in her neck. Whatever the stuff was it was extremely fast acting. Before Molly could open her mouth to scream she felt her knees give way. The man supported her and began to soundly kiss her, thus preventing her calling out for help. He snogged her so long that several people gave cat calls and one angry woman told them to get a room as she passed by. When he was sure the drug had taken effect, the man told a now semi-conscious Molly to lean on him.

"My car's just around the corner a bit. We'll have you all tucked away so you can sleep in no time." Molly nodded agreeably as Jacob Arnold helped her walk around the corner.


	11. Molly

Chapter Eleven - Molly

_**One day earlier**_ -

It was the day after the discovery of the botched murder scene. Sherlock sat back from his microscope in the lab at St. Bart's with a puff of satisfaction. He had confirmed the sticky debris from the shoe cover was the same soil he had identified in a previous case that was only found in a particular area of London near the river.

Addleston, the word brought back unwanted memories of an empty sweets warehouse and missing children. He glanced over at Molly who was working on a distillation test based on additional residue found at the scene. She was totally absorbed in her task. Sherlock took the time to watch her graceful moves as she walked back and forth between the equipment. The harsh lighting in the lab washed out her face, but caused the blonde highlights in her hair to shine with a silvery glow. Sherlock thought it was a particularly pleasing effect. Molly glanced up and smiled, then returned to her work. That was one of the things he liked about Molly. She didn't allow herself to get distracted when she was working on something. He began to pick up and clear his work space area.

"Sherlock, look at this!" Molly said a few minutes later in an excited tone. "Do you know what this is?"

Sherlock walked over to Molly's station and looked over her shoulder. Molly had separated a small pile of curious shaped objects. Each one was curled and triangular in cross section.

"My uncle was a machinist," Molly said. "When I was small he used to give me shavings like this to play with. I would pile them on a sheet of glass and run a magnet under the glass and move the shavings around to make interesting pictures."

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully. "Do you have a magnet handy?"

Molly nodded and walked to a filing cabinet at the back of the room. She quickly pulled a decorative magnet off and hurried back to Sherlock. When he held the magnet over the bits, they immediately jumped up and stuck to it.

"Iron or Steel." Sherlock murmured. "Probably steel from the looks of the color. Iron is usually darker. Well done Molly."

Molly smiled up at Sherlock. Praise was rare from the detective and Molly basked in his approval.

His mobile rang indicating an incoming text. Sherlock pulled the device from his pocket, pressed the proper button and read the message. It was from George Flynn, head of the underground connection affiliated with his homeless network. The message was brief, just an announcement that they had something of interest and a phone number.

Sherlock quickly punched the number and waited impatiently until a gruff voice answered.

"Flynn here."

"Holmes," Sherlock identified himself. "Have you found him?"

"Briefly," Flynn replied with a sound of irritation in his voice. "My operative followed him for some time, but lost him in Addleston.

Sherlock frowned at the news. They had lost him?

"Can you increase your people covering that area. I have evidence from the latest crime scene that also indicates Addleston might be his base of operation. Have them check out abandoned warehouses or factories that used steel in some way, perhaps a tool and dye manufacturer.

"I've already got extra people in that area. I'll pass your information along to them," Flynn assured him. "That's not the only reason I contacted you. My operative told me your suspect entered the Paramount Hotel on Bridge Street in Brixton about four hours ago. He was with a woman. An hour and a half later, he left alone. Maybe he had a date with the woman, but my man said she was acting strange like she might have been drugged or drunk. This could be another murder. You might want to check it out.

"Right, thank you Flynn. Press your people hard; we need to capture this git before he strikes again." The frustration was clear in Sherlock's voice.

"Right. I'll contact you as soon as we have something," Flynn replied.

Sherlock sat for a moment thinking. Everything was happening at lightning speed. If Malcom Arnold had murdered another girl so soon, he was spiraling even further out of control. Sherlock stood up, put on his coat and gloves, and walked over to Molly.

"There may be a new lead. I need to check it out," he told her.

Molly looked up at him with a small frown. She took the blue scarf from his hands and stood on tiptoes to tie it around his neck.

"Please be careful," she said looking him in the eyes.

Sherlock brushed a glove covered finger against her cheek.

"Of course I'll be careful Molly," he said in a soft voice. He turned and walked across the room and vanished through the double doors leaving a slightly worried Molly behind.

- ɸ -

Sherlock stood in front of the battered front desk of the Paramount Hotel. It was none too clean. The man sitting behind it wasn't much better. He chewed the stub of a cigar in his mouth blatantly ignoring the no smoking sign on the wall behind him. He glared at Sherlock.

"Are you the police?" he asked gruffly.

"I am a consultant working with the police," Sherlock explained sternly. "Have your maids cleaned all the rooms that were rented yesterday?"

The man behind the bar gave a snort. "Ain't got but one maid, and she's mighty slow. Don't usually have enough visitors to make a daily cleaning necessary. She usually gets around to them once a week. Most of our guests don't mind a little mess if you get what I mean." His face held a knowing smirk as he stared at Sherlock.

"Then I'll need to check all your rooms rented between two and five o'clock yesterday." Sherlock said.

"You got a warrant for that?" the man asked.

Sherlock smiled, dipped into his pocket an pulled out fifty quid and held it where it could be seen.

"I can arrange for a warrant if you insist. Of course that means all your lovely guests will have to leave and all of the rooms would need to be thoroughly searched. That would take some time. Several days at least, possibly even a week or more. And of course, if they find proof of illegal activities, it would certainly be longer. On the other hand, your permission to check a few rooms would only take a few minutes. Sherlock stared at him blandly and laid the note on the counter.

The man swallowed, chewed on his cigar for a moment, then cleared his throat. "Well I guess considerin' you're workin' with the coppers and all, I suppose a look around won't hurt." He grabbed the money and stuffed it in his pocket. He turned and stuck his head into a doorway behind the desk and shouted. "Joe, get your sorry arse out here and watch the desk while I help this customer."

Joe shuffled out from the room and sat on the recently vacated chair. The desk clerk who had still not identified himself grunted and began writing a list of room numbers on a sheet of paper. Finishing he fumbled under the desk and came up with a ring of keys. No modern card swipe keys for this hotel.

"Could I see your list?" Sherlock requested.

The desk clerk gave him a sour look and handed over the list. There were thirty-two room numbers on the list.

"You are sure all these rooms were rented between two and five o'clock?"

The man gave a snort. "What do you think this place is? The bloody Dorchester? This is the list of all rooms rented yesterday. We don't keep no eye on the flaming clock. Our rates are the same whether ya' want the room a hour or overnight."

"Well then," Sherlock said furiously studying the page, "you rented out the rooms starting on the third floor going to the fifth. Except for one. Room 218. Why is that?"

The disgruntled clerk shook his head. "Don't know, I didn't work yesterday."

"Oh, I remember them!" Joe behind the desk piped up. He said his missus wasn't feeling well and he didn't want to make her climb all those stairs. Our elevator is broken. He asked for a quiet room away from other guests. I told him the whole second floor had been trashed by a football team, but he said he didn't care as he was worried about his wife." Joe chucked and continued. "If you ask me, she was pissed. He had to hold her up when they walked. Not my kind of date if you know what I mean. I like them with a little more life in them."

"We'll start with room 218 then," Sherlock stated.

The man beside him grumbled about the necessity of climbing all those bloody stairs but lead the way more or less willingly. As it turned out there was no need to climb additional stairs. When he had opened the door to room 218, the desk clerk took one look and promptly fainted. Sherlock calmly took out his mobile and called New Scotland Yard.

"Dimmock, gather your men and come to the Paramount Hotel on Bridge Street in Brixton, room 218. There's been another murder."

- ɸ -

The evening found Sherlock seated on the couch going over the new evidence. There wasn't much. Unlike the previous murder, this one had not been interrupted. The young blond haired girl in room 218 was found gagged with a white handkerchief and blue oxford tie, hands and feet bound and tied to the bed. Her arms and legs had been slashed, a large letter J had been carved into her stomach. A long stemmed red rose lay on her stomach and a small card was clasped in her hands. There was a rickety chair positioned at the side of the bed with the usual signs that it had been used for observation. As with the last three girls, there was no obvious indications of sexual abuse.

Sherlock looked at the one thing that was slightly different. In his hands was a copy of the card, poem on one side, hand written note to Sherlock on the back. This time the poem and message were definitely more personal and threatening.

_Oh the beauty of sweet death._

_The halt of onward time._

_Eyes so brown that once were yours,_

_Soon only to be mine..._

On the reverse of the card was a personal note to Sherlock.

_Sherlock: This is a game changer. Are you ready?_

He stared at the card and frowned. For the first time he felt the poem was not just a silly macabre bit of bad poetry. All of Malcom Arnold's victims had blue eyes. Why say brown? He caught his breath sharply. The back of the card warned him of a game change. What if the poem was for him. There was a girl who was his and she had brown eyes! Oh my God! Molly! Molly was in danger because of him, again! He leaned over and pulled his mobile out of his jacket pocket and quickly texted.

_Where are you? SH_

He waited five minutes. Sweat forming on his brow, he tapped his fingers nervously on the coffee table in front of him. Finally he received a message.

_I'm shopping. Why? MH_

Sherlock let out a gasp of relief and answered back:

_Go home, lock your doors. I will come to you as soon as I can. SH_

_What's wrong? MH_

_I'll tell you when I get there. SH_

_Okay MH_

Sherlock suddenly stopped. Molly never closed her texts to him with her initials. Her initials being the same as Mycroft's she always signed Molly for the sake of clarity. Always.

_Molly did you stop at Sainsbury's? SH_

_Yes. MH_

_Did you get the tuna and carrots. Like we talked about for dinner?" SH_

_Yes I did. I'll be home soon. Here's my taxi. I love you. MH_

He sent one last text.

_See you soon. SH_

Sherlock stared in shock. This was not Molly texting him. It was her phone, but it was not her words. Molly had answered his leading question containing the code words Sainsbury's, carrots, and tuna with a yes. She knew Sainsbury's initiated the fact they were speaking code. She knew carrots meant danger and tuna indicated that all was not what it seemed to be. Molly was in danger!

He tried calling her, but the phone went directly to voice mail. He left an innocuous message. I'm sorry, I forgot to tell you that I love you too. Hurry home.

Next Sherlock furiously typed a text to his flatmate.

_John come to the flat pronto. It's an emergency. I need you now. SH_

_I'm at Tesco. What do you want? Milk again? JW_

Sherlock growled in frustration. Why didn't he believe him when he said it was an emergency. He grimaced as he typed another message. He hoped that John remembered their secret code for danger. His fingers shook as he typed:

_Sainsbury's get CARROTS, CARROTS, CARROTS! now! SH_

_On my way! JW_

Sherlock frantically paced back and forth. What was taking John so long? Didn't he understand he needed him? They needed to go to Molly's flat and Bart's to look for clues. How long did it take to get here from Tesco? Didn't he understand he needed to hurry? Was Molly even still alive? She was in danger and it was all his fault.

Sherlock paused in his pacing long enough to shout as John burst through the door below and thundered up the stairs and into the flat.

"What took you so long? Molly's in danger! We need to go to her flat immediately!" Sherlock shouted at the top of his voicel

"What's wrong?" John asked as he stared at his frantic friend. He had never seen the detective so unhinged. "Calm down, Sherlock. We'll go to Molly's but you need to calm down a little first." John tried to urge his friend to sit down, but Sherlock merely grabbed his coat and dashed out the door and down the steps with John trailing behind. They were blocked at the foot of the steps by Mrs. Hudson who had started up with a package in her hands.

"Sherlock, this package just came . . . "

"No time Mrs. Hudson! We have to go!"

Mrs. Hudson frowned and handed the package to John. "Really, Sherlock. There's no need to be rude."

John glanced at the package as Sherlock brushed past Mrs. Hudson.

"Stop, Sherlock" John shouted in his most authoritarian military voice. "You need to see this. It's about Molly."

It was if Sherlock had frozen solid. For a few moments he did not move at all and then he turned, looked at John, and took the package John was holding out to him. All three returned to the flat where Sherlock looked at the box under the bright ceiling lights of the kitchen. It was wrapped in brown paper, addressed to Sherlock Holmes at 221b W1 Baker Street, London. The return address simply stated: **From Molly Hooper**.

At the bottom underneath the address was written:

_Eyes so brown that once were yours._

_Are now and ever mine!_

"Oh sweet Jesus," John swore. "It's the verse from the card. He's talking about Molly!"

Sherlock sat on a kitchen chair and laid the package on the table before him. With shaking hands he removed the brown paper revealing a white cardboard box underneath. Written on the top of the box in permanent marker were a few sentences.

_Molly is safe in my care. She is now mine, but I am a generous man. I am willing to share. Here is your first present. More to come. Enjoy! _

_Jacob Arnold_

Sherlock lifted the lid of the box and stared in horror at the contents. There nestled in tissue paper held together with a perky red elastic was the long brown tresses of Molly's hair.

John Watson flinched as he witnessed the most anguished cry he had ever heard a man make on or off the battlefield as he helplessly watched his friend crumble to the floor rocking back and forth holding Molly's hair to his heart.


	12. Chapter 12 - Rescue?

Chapter 12 - Rescue?

John bent over Sherlock and grabbed his shoulders.

"Sherlock," he cried not knowing what else to say. What could one say to make things better at a wretched time like this?

Sherlock did not answer, but the rocking motion ceased. He continued to sit on the floor clutching the swath of Molly's hair.

"We'll find her Sherlock. Hang in there we will find Molly," John said desperately to his friend.

Sherlock did not respond. The room was totally silent. Mrs. Hudson stood in the doorway, anguish clear on her face, her shaking hands clasping and unclasping as she looked at the detective. No emotion showed on his face, but John could feel the tenseness of his shoulders and sensed the effort Sherlock was making to hold himself together.

"I'll call Lestrade," John told him gently.

"Dimmock," Sherlock corrected in a monotone. "It's Dimmock's case." Sherlock stared at the cabinets in front of him and noted that the doors needed to be scrubbed. There were several residue trails of chemical spills cascading downward. He must remind John to wipe them off sometime.

The silence was broken by a ringing sound. John rushed over to where Sherlock's coat had been dumped unceremoniously on the kitchen floor and pulled the mobile from its pocket.

"It's Flinn," he said as he handed the phone to Sherlock.

"Yes?" Sherlock croaked into the phone. "Where? How long ago? You're sure she was still alive?" Sherlock listened carefully for a few moments longer, and then nodded as he said, "Yes, thank you." He handed the mobile to John. Sherlock's eyes were steely gray; there were no hints of softness. His jaw clenched in determination. He stood in one fluid motion. "I know where he has taken her. Call Dimmock and tell him to meet us at Myer and Fitch Pipefitting and Tool Factory, 2408 Barrow Lane, Addleston. He's there now with Molly. Tell him to hurry; we will join him as soon as we can." Sherlock shoved his arms into his greatcoat, and swiftly walked over to Mrs. Hudson.

"Keep this for me," he said as he placed the smooth length of Molly's hair into her hands.

"Oh Sherlock," Martha Hudson quavered. "Do be careful and bring her home safe if you can.

"Come on John," Sherlock's urgent voice was strong and sure. John ran to follow the rushing detective down the stairs.

- ɸ -

Molly was cold. The drugs were still rolling freely through her system, but she could remember a few things. Her captor was tall, not as tall as Sherlock, but taller than John. He was young, somewhere in his thirties or early forties. He was strong. She had tried to remember her martial arts and street fighting techniques, but found he was able to easily overpower her in the drugged state she was currently in. She could remember walking through some sort of factory. The rust and debris telling her it was probably abandoned. There were stairs going down. She had tripped, causing her captor to swear viciously. She must have passed out because the next thing she knew she found herself tied to a chair in this dimly lit room.

Her head felt odd, curiously light. "Oh my," she moaned through the gag in her mouth. Her hair had been cut! Straggles of chin length hair swung in front of her eyes as she tossed her head about. She wasn't sure, but she suspected that the back of her hair was even shorter. Molly twisted and turned as much as she was able, but soon realized she was hopelessly bound. She calmed herself and concentrated on being still. All this motion was making her nauseous and if she vomited while gagged she would suffocate herself. As her body became quiet Molly felt herself loose consciousness once more. Her last thought was that she hoped Sherlock would find her soon.

- ɸ -

Jacob Arnold sat leaned back in an office chair with his hands clasped behind his head. He looked about his trophy room and smiled. One wall was covered with photos of his girls. They were so lovely. Their gashes of red blood gleamed under the fluorescent lighting. Soon Molly Hooper's pictures would join them. Not just yet though, she must be awake and out from under the influence of the drugs he had given her. What would Sherlock Holmes do when he sent him a copy of the photos? He hoped he had appreciated the gift of the pony tail. It was quite expensive sending it to him by courier.

He swiveled in the chair and studied the next wall that was lined with shelving from floor to ceiling. Articles of clothing were folded and neatly labeled. It was a variety of apparel from shoes to bras and knickers, a scarf from one, a blouse from another. What would he choose from Molly? Perhaps her lab coat, that was different, he didn't have one of those.

Jacob's eyes flitted to the third wall. This wall was papered with numerous newspaper clippings, magazine articles and snapshots of one person; Sherlock Holmes. In the center of the wall was an enlarged head and shoulders photo with a crude bull's-eye painted about the face.

Sherlock Holmes. Well, father would soon realize who was the most clever. He would dispose of Molly Hooper and move on to the other person Sherlock seemed to value almost as much as the girl. John Watson. Watson would present more of a challenge. He was a military man, but Jacob was confident he would be able to subdue him. Then he would go after Holmes. Jacob grinned in anticipation. He would show father that he was brilliant. He had done his research. He knew he would be able to keep Holmes alive and in agony for months. Moving Molly Hooper to this place was a change in his procedure, but a necessary one. She was different from the others. He wanted to take more time with her. There was no need to hurry her death. He could afford to make an extra effort in her case. After all, she was important to Sherlock. That made her important to him. It would be like old times when he had first started taking the girls. He rubbed his hands as he thought about what he could do with her while making sure she stayed alive until it was time for her death.

Movement from the corner of his eye caught his attention. He turned to face the fourth wall where several video monitors were hung. He had company. Jacob stood and swore as he focused on the police, accompanied by Holmes himself entering the factory doors on the main floor above. Well, let them search. The entry to the stairway that lead down to this level was cleverly concealed by huge crates and debris. Unless you knew it was there the access to his lair was almost impossible to find. Jacob sat back to enjoy the show. Let them all bumble about, they would find nothing. Most of the warehouses and factories in this area were street level only. This one and five others were connected by a series of labyrinth like passageways and store rooms. The owners having branched out into illegal entrepreneurships which they wished to remain secret. It was a perfect place for his lair. No one would suspect the existence of such an underground facility so close to the water's edge. Parts of it did periodically flood, but the rooms he occupied were always dry.

"Come on Sherlock! Let's see what you can do!" Jacob crowed to himself. Part of him even wanted the detective to discover him.

- ɸ -

Sherlock and John followed Dimmock and his men into the disused factory. Dimmock had argued that Sherlock should remain outside while the building was searched, but Sherlock had just fixed him with his most intimidating stare until Dimmock shook his head and growled, "Stay with John and follow us."

Sherlock bristled at the insinuation that he needed John to protect him, and then realized the truth of the matter. He did need John. He nodded curtly in Dimmock's direction and followed the patrol into the building. As he entered the doorway he nudged John and said in a low voice, "Look up."

John looked up. There mounted on an overhead beam was a closed circuit camera. He glanced at Sherlock who was studiously looking to his left.

"Do you think it is working?"

"If I were Malcom Arnold, I would make sure it was," Sherlock answered. "So much for a surprise raid."

"Spread out," Dimmock ordered in a soft voice. "And stay in pairs. Keep your eyes open and don't give the bugger a chance to pick you off."

John and Sherlock searched for twenty minutes before someone called out, "Over here!"

John darted away in the direction of the voice, but Sherlock remained unmoving staring at the floor. There, gleaming sharply in the beam of his torch, was a silvery glow. He bent over and picked up the small heart shaped earring. It was Molly's. He remembered the day they had past the jeweler's and how Molly had looked as she gazed at the display in the shop window. It was not an expensive gift, a mere trinket, but Molly wore them constantly. She said it was because they were small and appropriate for wearing during working hours, but Sherlock suspected that sentiment was involved.

He was quite alone. Everyone else had rallied to the caller. Sherlock crouched near the floor and cast the torch about. Almost invisible, but apparent to his keen eyes were patterns in the dust. Someone had turned to the right and walked toward the back of the factory. Sherlock followed the faint trail until it disappeared in front of a wall of storage crates stacked tightly together. Sherlock looked up and spotted another closed circuit camera pointing down the rows of shipping crates. Why was a camera placed here? Sherlock studied the wooden crates stacked almost to the ceiling. They were stacked so as to make a perfect optical illusion. What appeared to be a solid row of boxes contained an inset large enough for a person to walk into. Sherlock moved closer. Once inside the entrance he could see a gap between the boxes to his right forming a narrow tunnel just wide enough to walk into. Sherlock paused, pulled a glove from his hand, and knelt in the entranceway pretending to be looking at something on the floor. Dropping the glove, he stood and turned right and entered the narrow tunnel between the boxes.

- ɸ -

Jacob swore loudly as he watched Sherlock disappear from the camera's view as he headed into the stacked crates. How had he found the way so quickly? It was as if the man had some kind of infrared ability to track. Jacob stood up and walked to the door, picking up his large knife on the way. This was going to end today. Sherlock Holmes was not going to leave here alive. He quickly made his way to Molly's room. Good, she was awake at last. This might be a major change in his plans, but it would still work out to his advantage. Let Holmes come, let him watch as he slit his girlfriend's lovely neck in front of his eyes. Jacob grinned darkly as Molly struggled helplessly in the chair.

- ɸ -

John finally realized that Sherlock was not behind him. The policemen were all gathered around a pile of women's clothing one of them had dumped from a plastic trash bag. John looked around frantically then headed back the way he had come in search of his friend. He swore softly under his breath. How had they gotten separated? Where was Sherlock now? John traced his way back to the last place he remembered seeing Sherlock. He wandered around in circles until he found Sherlock's blue scarf laying on the dirty floor folded in a ninety degree angle, one end forming a makeshift arrow pointing to the right.

"Good job, Sherlock!" John grinned and turned to the right. Soon he was standing in front of a wall of crates. On the floor, John spotted one of Sherlock's gloves three fingers folded under, the index finger pointing straight ahead. Puzzled John took a step closer and understood what Sherlock was telling him. There was a tunnel behind the boxes. He quickly entered the narrow passage which twisted and turned inside the stack of shipping crates, eventually leading to a stairwell going down into darkness.

Turning on his torch, John crept carefully down the staircase. At the bottom he passed through a doorway into a hall. Sherlock's other glove pointed to the right once more. Finally after some twists and turns the hallway straightened out. John could hear low voices coming from a room on the right. He held his gun up in front of his face and eased quietly down the hallway until he was just outside the room. He paused, back to the wall, straining to hear what was being said.

"Put the knife down, Malcom, let Molly go and I will do as you say," John heard Sherlock say quietly.

Malcom Arnold laughed. "My name is Jacob, Jacob Arnold, you worthless git. I intend to slice this pretty girl's neck and watch you watch her die! You can do nothing to stop me! I've outsmarted you! Father will be so proud."

"Okay, Jacob." Sherlock amended. "I believe you. Yes, you are smarter than me. I was always so afraid of your father. You were the brave one. You were the one that showed him you knew how to control the girls. Why don't you untie Molly and you can show me how to handle a woman properly?" John could hear a low moan from Molly.

"Very funny Holmes. You are just trying to distract me. Well your time is up, watch this."

John swung his body around the doorway. Sherlock stood between him and Jacob Arnold, blocking a clear shot. With a split second decision, he made his choice and fired the gun.

Sherlock Holmes went down, blood pooling on the floor. Malcom Arnold slumped backward, a bullet hole in his temple above his left eye. He'd had to shoot through his friend to hit his target. Molly Hooper sat in horror as her slashed neck began to bleed profusely.

"Oh God! What have I done?" John moaned as he rushed into the room and applied pressure to her bleeding neck.


	13. Chapter 13 Beast Within

**Chapter 13 - Beast Within**

Molly awoke in hospital. She floated in and out of consciousness a few times before realizing where she was. She could hear the beeps of monitors and felt the uncomfortable scratch of hospital sheets. Sherlock sat by her bedside, shoulder in a sling, John stood at the foot of her bed. Neither man realized she was awake. They were arguing, not angrily, just snipping at each other.

"I still say you could have shot past me, John. You didn't have to leave holes in my coat! Not to mention the cleaning bill. Blood is difficult to remove!" Sherlock grumbled.

"Yeah, like I had all the time in the world to make up my mind," John groused back. "If you weren't so bloody tall I could have shot past your ear and got him that way."

"If you had, I'd be likely walking around looking like Van Goh for the rest of my life," Sherlock snorted. "You did shoot my arm!"

"It is just a flesh wound and I took down Malcom Arnold for good." John said with satisfaction.

"You're lucky Malcom had a camera pointed at Molly," Sherlock observed. "It will make the inquiry easier. You probably won't be prosecuted, but at least there is a clear record that it was self defense."

"I'm not worried. Dimmock texted me an hour ago that all is well."

"You could have told me," Sherlock replied with a slight huff.

"I did," John said with a grin. "You were too upset about Molly to pay any attention."

"Hey!" Molly croaked interrupting them before their argument could escalate further.

"Molly!" John said brightly as he walked up to stand beside Sherlock. "Don't try to speak. You are going to be fine."

Molly touched her bandaged neck.

"There's no permanent damage." John assured her. "You lost a lot of blood and you'll be staying overnight to replace fluids. The thing for you to do now is to rest and not try to talk." He continued to ramble on about details of her injury and the importance of rest, but his voice faded into the background. Molly had eyes only for Sherlock. The two stared at each other, ignoring the presence of the good doctor. John finally realized he was a third wheel and made a lame excuse which was unheard by the couple. They did not notice as he quietly left the room.

"Are you alright?" Molly croaked and waved a hand unsteadily toward Sherlock's injured arm.

'It's nothing," he said as he held a glass of water so she could take a sip.

"Arnold shot you?" Molly asked in a puzzled whisper.

"No," Sherlock said with a smile, "John did. I was merely collateral damage." Sherlock smiled briefly at Molly's look of horror. "It's only a flesh wound Molly. I'm fine."

"Arnold?" she asked.

"Dead. You won't have to worry about that scum ever again."

Molly gazed deeply into Sherlock's silvery eyes and smiled tentatively. "I was not worried, I knew you would find me," she whispered.

"Don't talk Molly. You need to rest."

Molly nodded and then grimaced. Even with pain killers floating in her system, the slight movement hurt. She closed her eyes, drifting off into an exhausted sleep, still holding his large hand with her small fingers.

Sherlock continued to sit by the bedside, watching her sleep. Her small body was cocooned under tubes and wires, monitors quietly beeping her heart rhythm in the background. In addition to the bandage on her neck, he could see dark bruising forming on her right cheek and the distinct purpling of finger marks on her upper arms. Arnold had not been gentle. They had all been very lucky today.

The case had been very disturbing on several levels. Sherlock was usually not one to mull over what might have been, however this case had struck very close to home. Molly had been put in considerable danger. He needed to reevaluate his association with his girlfriend/pathologist/whatever before continuing. He decided to begin with a clean slate and look at the situation objectively.

He approached the situation with logic and reason. He closed his eyes tightly and entered his Mind Palace. He walked down the hallway decorated with portraits by the old Dutch masters. His Mind Palace had changed with his needs over the years. Once a simple repository for information, it now resembled a modern high tech multimedia center. Its flexibility continued to expand with his needs.

He approached a bright red door that was the same shade as Molly's favorite lipstick. A small brass plaque discreetly inscribed with elegant calligraphy announced that the room belonged to Molly Hooper. Sherlock smirked humorously at the door. It seemed like the more he knew Molly, the fancier the door became. New to this visit were lovely carvings of roses in the lacquered wood. The door in question sprung open before he could touch it. Apparently, he was always welcome here. The room on the other side was lovely. It exuded calmness. One wall was filled with tall mahogany shelves organized with files of information about all things Molly. The remaining walls were painted in a deep teal color where several tasteful paintings hung (only two were of cats). The sofa and matching chairs were of soft tan leather with green and teal throw pillows. A generous mahogany coffee table placed in front of the sofa sported a cup of steaming coffee and a small basket containing Molly's favorite sweet, gold foil-wrapped chocolates embossed with the name _Seduction_. Sherlock seated himself and glanced about. Everything about the room was serene and comforting. Just like Molly herself. He settled back with a contented sigh and began to contemplate:

1. Molly Hooper was helpful in his work.

2. She was reliable and trustworthy.

3. She was intelligent, witty and tolerable to associate with on a daily basis.

4. She often offered insights into human interactions that he overlooked.

5. Therefore, Molly Hooper was important to his work.

All this was reasonable and he concluded that his logic was flawless.

Logic did not seem so clear-cut when defining emotions, but Sherlock gave it his best try: He closed his eyes again:

6. Molly made him smile, sometimes even laugh.

7. He felt drawn to her and experienced emotional satisfaction that was often intriguing.

8. He enjoyed sex with her.

9. He wanted to be around her and share ideas and new found feelings with her.

Therefore, He was emotionally attracted to Molly Hooper.

Well, perhaps the above was true. He would allow it some merit. Now for the negatives:

He started the list:

1. Molly was irritating...he paused. She wasn't any more irritating than anyone else in general and less so than most. He mentally crossed irritating off the list and tried again.

1. Molly talked too much...he paused again. Well, that might be true of the old Molly, the one who nervously stuttered and said inane things just to get his attention. But Molly had changed, she hadn't been annoying for some time. He crossed that one off the list also.

1. Molly was too emotional. Yes, he thought with satisfaction. Molly was too emotional. However, to be fair to her, after several conversations with John (who was definitely an expert in that area), Sherlock admitted to himself that all women were too emotional. To hold that against Molly did not seem reasonable. He crossed it off the list.

1. Molly was too demanding of his time. Sherlock desperately wanted to be able to include this item, but in all fairness, Molly rarely overstepped herself in this area. She understood how important the work was to Sherlock and responded accordingly. She often alluded to the work as "their work" something Sherlock secretly appreciated. He slowly crossed it off the list in his mind.

1. Molly was a liability. That statement was the whole problem in a nutshell. Calling her a liability was insensitive and part of him knew John would mutter 'not good' under his breath, but he also knew he would not be able to always protect her. This was a deeply disturbing fact. Could he function at optimum levels if he was always concerned for her safety?

As he sat quietly thinking, the walls of Molly's room began to morph into less calming colors. Now they reflected a garish orange. Sherlock knew he was not prepared to declare that he loved Molly Hooper, but he realized she made him happier than he had ever been in his entire life. Surely that indicated compatibility leading to maximum efficiency on his part? All he needed was to be able to insure her well being. A solution to this dilemma must be available.

It was troubling. Now the walls turned an ugly puce. The pictures were horrible caricatures of cats. Gone was the comfy sofa, he was now sitting on a black bean bag chair of all things and surrounded by multitudes of meowing felines who glared at him rather fiercely. Why was he surrounded by cats in such an ugly surroundings? He thought back to his previous statement .** Molly was a liability.**

Immediately the room morphed again. Now it was a copy of the hospital room. He glanced down at imaginary Molly in the bed and sucked in his breath. Molly was terribly injured, covered head to toe in blood soaked bandages. John stood at the foot of her bed. He shook his head in a disappointed manner.

"This is all your fault, Sherlock" he said sadly ."Molly is dying because of your selfishness. You need to protect her from all this!" John waved a hand toward the door. Through the window Sherlock could see the flashing lights of police cars reflecting off the walls. Faces that were vaguely reminiscent of Moriarity and Arnold leered at Molly.

Sherlock turned back to look at Molly. The sight of her lying there injured tore at something deep within him. He quickly snapped out of his Mind Palace and back to the comforting hospital sounds that indicated that Molly was fine and recovering nicely.

Yes he had found her...this time. Sherlock didn't believe in luck. Solid deductive work and the employment of Flynn's people had lead him to Molly. But he also knew that the day might come when either John or Molly would be the one who paid the price for his outrageous lifestyle. One of them would be the one he didn't find in time. In a very real sense this was his fault.

He had tried to protect John during the Moriarity ordeal. A lot of good that had done! John was just plain bullheaded. Well, John was a soldier, a tough warrior to the core. He had let Sherlock know that he would call his own shots. They had made their peace. Each knew the risks they faced daily and accounted them acceptable. Molly...Molly was a different story. **Molly was a liability.**

Molly's small pointed chin rested above the thick bandaging about her neck. Her face was pale under the deep purpling bruises on her face. Her raggedy, chopped hair limply clung to her head. He watched as her slow even breathing caused her chest to gently swell and fall. With out a doubt, she was the most beautiful being he had ever known. She looked tiny and very fragile lying there on the bed, like a wisp or a vapor that might vanish any moment. Life was extremely ephemeral. Who was he to put Molly in such constant danger? She had not chosen to live this way. To include her in such a lifestyle was abhorrent. It was a sacrilege to all that was decent, logical and just. Molly was gentle, kind and loving, the purest heart he had ever known. Sherlock shook his head. He was soft. Too soft. How would his new found emotions protect her? His breath caught as her breathing pattern paused for what seemed like an eternity before resuming its gentle passage to and fro. He had almost lost Molly tonight. All of his and John's lighthearted jabs disappeared from his mind as the realization of just how close to death she had come slammed into him.

Something deep within Sherlock Holmes broke. A life-long barrier gave way and emotion, rough, and searing, rose up and struck him like a heavy boulder suddenly toppling from an unseen precipice. He drew in a ragged breath and was overwhelmed. He swallowed hard. He felt his body begin to shake in reaction. Raw and visceral. the emotion clawed its way to the surface of his consciousness.

He entered the Mind Palace once more. There had to be a solution. A way to protect her. He just needed to find it. He noticed a heavy black door on the far wall. That was new. He had never seen the door before. Something about it was ominous. He approached it guardedly. When he touched the doorknob, he withdrew his hand quickly. It was hot, very hot. He could hear deep groaning sounds coming from the other side. He didn't want to open the door, but at the same time, something told him that Molly would never be safe unless he did. Whatever that was behind the door was the key to her protection.

He squared his shoulders and yanked on the handle, ignoring the searing pain in the palm of his hand as it contacted hot metal. The door swung open and banged on the wall behind its hinges. He peered inside.

He gazed into a yawning opening. In front of him was a dark cavern that seemed to go on forever. In the middle of the open space lay a huge beast. The form was vaguely humanoid but was not human. It opened silvery eyes, snorted a puff of smoke and roared an angry bellow.

"So you have come." The creature stood on its legs and seemed to move with a fluidity that denied its shape and bulk. It turned its broad back and moved deeper into the dark recesses of the cave.

"I suppose you want me to pick up the pieces of the mess you have made," it snorted disgustedly. "If you had kept your head, you wouldn't be in this state."

Sherlock stared in bewilderment. The thing acted as if they were acquainted but he knew he had not seen this creature before.

"What are you?" He asked. Encountering unknown entities in his mind palace was definitely new. He racked his brain for some clue or connection that would help identify it. Was he loosing his sanity?

"Oh you are as sane as you ever were," the creature smirked. Apparently the thing could read his mind. That was disturbing. Something in its expression seemed familiar, but Sherlock was distracted as the creature began to speak again.

"Now that you have all these nice, warm, and very cozy feelings for Molly, have you noticed how weak you have become? Can you say you are able to protect her with any surety of accomplishing the fact? What will happen the next time a crazed maniac latches on to her?" The beast paused and slyly looked up from under its eyelids, eyes glinting in the dimness. "It is only a matter of time. It will happen you know."

"What do you want?" Sherlock demanded.

"I want the same thing as you do, you idiot!" the creature snarled. "I can guarantee that no one of your association ever harms her again. Can you do the same?"

"Sherlock stared at the creature. His heart thumped madly in his breast. What was he willing to do to protect Molly? Anything, he realized.

"How do I know if I can trust you?" he demanded.

"Step closer," the beast murmured soothingly. As Sherlock complied the beast made connection. It demanded satisfaction. It overturned his protests that his care for Molly Hooper was enough to protect her. It laughed at his feelings for the lovely pathologist. Shrieking through his brain, it proclaimed its superiority. Taunting him, it projected vaporous pictures of Molly and Sherlock kissing, holding hands, making love, each apparition of them dissolving into Molly surrounded by pools of blood. Circling round and round, the beast scratched and bellowed, demanding to be heard.

"You can never keep her safe," it shrieked. "Caring is not an advantage! Fool! Look at you! You will end up killing her with your love! Then what will you have? Tears! Regret! Agony! You are too soft!"

The mighty beast circled him once more flicking it's long red tail up into the air as it bellowed its rage. The muscles in Sherlock's throat tightened, the cords in his neck popped to the surface, causing him to choke as he tried to swallow. This was not real! His imagination was out of control! He needed to leave this place. He turned and hurried away but each time he looked over his shoulder, the beast was close behind.

Suddenly the creature circled and sat down before him, staring at him with a crafty look on its face.

"You are upset," it said in a low voice. "Calm yourself and let us consider reason." The beast flicked it's tail back and forth and smiled in a somewhat winning manner.

"Do you know who I am?" it asked Sherlock.

Sherlock thought for a moment. He knew who the beast was. He just did not want to say it aloud. The creature looked at him knowingly and sighed, tapping it's tail on the hard stone floor.

"You and I are old friends. Think! Sherlock. Just think rational thoughts. You will not protect Molly by pretending sentiment. You are incapable of love. You will best serve all concerned by forgetting these silly emotions. Molly will thank you in the end. And if she doesn't, at least she will live to curse you."

Sherlock knew the beast spoke the truth. Its logic was infallible. All he needed to do to save Molly was to stop all this silly emotional drivel he has been dabbling in. Emotions were not his area, why had he ever thought he might be able to function in such an erratic and dysfunctional manner? Part of him screamed that he wanted those emotions, wanted the chance to love and be loved, but it was an increasingly small part of him that withered to a whimper that ended in silence.

The beast smiled and nodded it's head in a friendly manner. It knew it had won.

With searing pain, the beast rushed down into his chest and circled menacingly about his heart, squeezing it with agonizing pressure. It slithered, scrambling round and round in triumph. It roared about, gathering any indication of pathetic love it recognized as weakness.

It ripped at his very soul.

Sherlock grew harder. Only hardness could protect Molly and he would protect her at all costs, even from himself. His inner beast rolled the essence of all emotion for Molly into a small tight ball and sealed it inside a small golden oval. Finally, it curled itself about the golden orb, guarding it, hording the love buried deep within with all its strength.

Sherlock turned, shoulders straight and bolted the heavy black door closed. Behind the locked door he could hear the agonized bellow of the beast that was his heart. He ignored it and walked away. Molly would be safe. He was not soft.

- ɸ -

Two weeks later.

Molly finished the latest battery of tests and sighed, she was tired, but it was a good tired. It was one that came with satisfaction of a job well done. It was good being back to work. Things were finally getting back to normal.

It was a quiet day in the morgue. For some reason, perhaps because of the upcoming holiday, there were only a few bodies in the specially designed coolers. It appeared that the criminals and murderers were taking a break. That was unusual, the Christmas season usually brought out the ugly in such people.

Molly idly fingered the silk scarf tied loosely about her neck. The slash on her throat was healed, but the angry red scar had not yet begun to fade. She knew she was lucky. It could have been much worse. If it had not been John's quick reflexes, Arnold would have slashed deeply and she would be dead. It still made her queasy thinking about it.

It wasn't the wound on her neck, or any of the rainbow multitude of healing bruises that frustrated her though. It was Sherlock bloody Holmes. Something was going on that Molly couldn't quite put a finger on. It was simply infuriating. He still came to Bart's to work on cases, but he was spending more and more time at other morgue facilities. When he was at Bart's, he was all business. At first Molly had not thought anything about his standoffishness. He had never been overly demonstrative. Now he seemed to be working all the time. He was different.

At first she had excused his withdrawn manner as his way of dealing with the kidnapping. He was still in and out of the morgue. He texted regularly, and even dropped a few light kisses on her cheek as he left Bart's. But it wasn't the same. Molly knew they needed to talk, but Sherlock seemed very unapproachable lately.

- ɸ -

Marie Homes LeFlore sighed and frowned at her oldest son.

"You are sure he is avoiding her?

"Yes." Mycroft shifted in his chair and tried to make himself more comfortable. Mummy always had this effect on him.

Marie sighed and rolled her eyes. "Why doesn't he realize that this is not the answer?" Marie did not expect an answer from Mycroft. "He has always pushed those he loves away. Stubborn boy!"

Mother and son sat with an uneasy silence hanging between them.

"What are you going to do about it Mycroft?" Marie asked impatiently. "The situation cannot be allowed to continue."

Mycroft frowned, shifted once again and sighed. From the time he was a young man barely old enough to care for himself he had been saddled with his fractious overbearing sibling.

"What do you want me to do Mummy? You know how Sherlock is. Once he gets a notion in his head, he doesn't change."

Marie gave her eldest son a stern look. "I expect you to talk some sense into your brother. The girl is obviously willing to put up with him in spite of his many eccentricities. We can't allow him to destroy the best thing that has happened to him in years."

"Oh I don't know. He has John," Mycroft said mildly. "Perhaps that is all he needs. You know Sherlock is peculiar when choosing his associates. Miss Hooper may not be as vital as you think."

Marie LeFlore sighed. "Everyone needs someone, Mycroft. John is currently courting a lovely girl and my sources indicate they are serious about each other. He will always be Sherlock's friend, but he soon may not been as accessible as he has been in the past."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and glanced at his mother. "Your sources, Mummy?" he inquired. "Isn't that being a little too involved?"

"Nothing is more important to me than the well being of my sons," Mummy answered. "I am prepared to take whatever steps necessary in order to insure their happiness."

Mycroft sighed. "Allow me to think on this. I will come up with something."

Marie LeFlore Fixed her oldest son with a steady gaze. "See that you take action soon Mycroft," she said softly. "Sherlock seems to be changing, and not for the better. We do not need to have to endure a repeat his past mistakes."

-A/N - Special thanks to the ladies of the forum, Mrs. Hudson's Kitchen. Your support means more than you know. Thanks for breaking me out of my block. Your willingness to slap sense into me is much appreciated. (I am so glad the riding crop was unnecessary!)

As always, love to Dr. Napalm for the much needed beta work.

Pat


	14. Chapter 14 Conflict

_**A/N:**__ In this chapter Molly alludes to the incident where Moriarty kidnaps her. That happened in the first story in this series. If you haven't read it, no worries. I just wanted to clear up any confusion it might cause._

Chapter Fourteen -Conflict

Sherlock flipped the collar up on his greatcoat. He pushed a wayward lock back off his forehead, straightened his shoulders and headed down the street. He was as ready as he was ever going to be. It was time to initiate his plan to protect Molly.

Arriving at Bart's, he flung the doors to the morgue open in his usual fashion and glided into the room. Seeing Molly working on a body, he headed over to peer over her shoulder.

Molly looked up, hands cupping her patient's liver as she lifted it from the body.

"Hello Sherlock, I wasn't expecting you today. What do you need?" Molly's eyes widened as she noticed his body flinch slightly at her last words. "Is something wrong?"

"No. I just thought I would stop by." Sherlock hesitated. He looked at Molly's cheerful face and felt the stab of a small dagger of conscience. He cleared his throat and opened his mouth and blurted out a completely unexpected question.

"Would like to go out for dinner this evening?"

Sherlock winced slightly. Molly wasn't aware of the significance of the question. After all, she had never met the notorious Irene Adler. She took the question at face value. In his agitated mood, Sherlock wasn't sure what he had meant.

Meanwhile, Molly was smiling. "That sounds lovely," she said. "I get off at five. How about coming over to the flat about seven-ish?" She looked up at the tall detective as he stood hovering over her. Something about the look on his face bothered her.

"What is it?" she asked softly. "Is everything okay?"

"Everything is fine Molly." He answered rather woodenly. "I'll see you at seven." Sherlock turned and quickly left the morgue.

Molly stared at his retreating back. What on earth was going on? She was used to Sherlock's usual quirks. This strange attitude was new, something was bothering him. She sighed, well hopefully they would take care of it this evening. She sighed again and focused back on her work. It couldn't be too serious if he still wanted to take her to dinner. Her mind returned to her work. Mr. Homerosky's liver was definitely fatty, poor man.

Later that afternoon, Molly received a text from Sherlock telling her that he had another case and would need to cancel their date. Molly had answered back that she understood and to be careful. She would see him another time.

Back at Baker Street, Sherlock stared out of his bedroom window. The view was unremarkable. An alley, some bins and the back of the building behind his. It wasn't the view that had his attention however. He was busy castigating himself for not going through with his plans.

It was the sight of Molly's happy face that had caved his resolution. He found himself incapable of hurting her feelings and had instead invited her to dinner! Of all the stupid things he had ever done that one had to rank in the top ten. What did he think he was doing? He looked down at the last message he had sent on his mobile. He had fired off a text inventing an excuse to cancel the dinner date. Now he was lying to her. Sherlock had never lied to Molly before. He found the sensation unpalatable.

ɸ

_One week later_

John Watson sat in his chair. He still thought of it as his chair, although technically it had been part of the partially furnished flat at 221b and would remain behind when he and Mary moved into the newly refurbished 221c next month after their upcoming wedding. He rubbed the cloth arms of the chair, feeling the cool slide of his fingertips against the worn fabric. Maybe if he caught Mary in the right mood she would let him keep the chair. He knew Mrs. Hudson wouldn't mind. As far as he was concerned, it was his chair and he had lots of fond memories invested in it. The cushions were dented permanently to fit the shape of his body. It was comfortable in the way that no new chair would be for years. Why were women so picky about furniture? Mary kept insisting that everything had to match, which was woman talk for all of his stuff was rubbish! He gave the arm of the old chair a fond squeeze, sighed, and acknowledged that it was getting rather threadbare in places, but it had a lot of good wear still in it.

He was looking forward to the time when they would be together in their own home. He was amazed at how spacious and airy the basement apartment had turned out. Once the specialists were finished with the mildew removal and the waterproofing sealant had been installed under the new paneling, the basement apartment had turned out quite nice. It was light and airy. It actually was bigger than 221b, having three bedrooms, one of which Mary had suggested he turn into his personal study. Maybe she would let him have his chair in there.

He looked across the room and into the kitchen where Sherlock was sitting at the table working on one of his various experiments. John sighed, he was worried about his flat mate. Sherlock had not been the same since the Malcom Arnold case. For some reason, He had become increasingly surly. Sherlock was definitely drawing into himself.

At first John had worried that his friend had started using drugs again. A thorough search had yielded nothing. Next, John had actually inspected his friend's arms as he lay sleeping on the couch one day. He had even taken the precaution of checking between his toes. What a fiasco that had been. Sherlock had woken up and John still flushed in embarrassment at the memory. No, Sherlock wasn't doing drugs that John could tell. He still sneaked a cigarette or two a week and wore way too many nicotine patches, but nothing worse.

The man was working constantly, he appeared almost driven, taking cases that were not more than a three or four in even John's eyes. He snapped at everyone. Last week he had had Sally Donavan in tears! Sally, who was as tough as an old boot!

John sighed again. It all boiled down to Molly Hooper. Despite Molly's assurances to Mary that nothing was wrong, that Sherlock was just very busy, John could tell something was not right between the detective and his pathologist. For one thing, in the weeks since the Arnold case, Sherlock had not spent as much time with her. Sherlock seemed always in a rush, in and out of Bart's so quickly he sometimes didn't see Molly at all. In the past, Sherlock had timed his visits to coordinate with Molly's schedule. Now it almost seemed as if

Sherlock was doing the opposite and avoiding her.

He supposed he had better step in before Sherlock did something really stupid and screwed up the rest of his life and Molly's too. John knew Sherlock cared for Molly, no man reacted how he had when he had discovered she had been kidnapped and not love her. The look on Sherlock's face as he cradled Molly's shorn ponytail would haunt John for the rest of his life.

He ran a frustrated hand through his short hair. He hated getting into the middle of all this. Sherlock was sure to rip him apart over it.

John cleared his throat. He looked across the room. The man had been sitting in front of that microscope for at least two hours and John knew he hadn't changed a single slide.

"So, have you talked to Molly lately?" John asked casually, trying to appear only mildly interested.

Sherlock stared into the microscope, adjusted the focus slightly, then peered intently into the lens as if his life depended on whatever the slide he was looking at had to show.

"Humph," he muttered noncommittally.

John sighed.

"How is Molly doing? I haven't seen her in ages. Perhaps, we should invite her over for an evening? Maybe ask Mrs. Hudson up? We could watch a movie or something. I could ask Mary to pick up something Molly would enjoy. What do you think?" John stared at his friend. Sherlock was still ignoring him, jotting down a few notes, then peering into the microscope again.

"Sherlock? Are you even listening to me?" John frowned. "You haven't been the same since the Malcolm Arnold case. Why are you acting this way?"

"And what way is that John?"

"Like a cold hearted bastard!" John said. "You hardly talk anymore. I would say you aren't eating, but then you never do. Poor Mrs. Hudson is worried to death, and what about Molly? When is the last time you saw or talked to her? She doesn't deserve to be treated like this!"

Sherlock stood up, walked into the living area, put his coat on and began to tie his scarf about his long neck. John glared at him in frustration.

"Can I at least ask where you are going?"

"Out," Sherlock said abruptly and went through the door and down the stairs.

"Well, that was informative," John said sarcastically to the empty room.

ɸ

Molly's fingers hesitated over the keypad of her phone. They trembled slightly as she began to tap out the text message.

_Hi. _

_Moll__y_

She waited ten minutes, then tried again.

_I know you are finished with your last case. Can we talk? _

_Molly_

Still nothing.

_You could come to the flat or we could meet somewhere for coffee. Say 3:00? _

_Molly_

Molly had almost given up when she heard the small ping. She eagerly reached into the pocket of her tan slacks and pulled the small mobile out. The message was short and to the point.

_Guido's at 3:00. _

_SH_

Molly sighed. she had hoped he would come to the flat. It was more conducive to private conversation, but at least he was willing to meet her. Molly was not stupid. She knew something was amiss. Everything had changed after the kidnapping. She mentally kicked herself for taking so long to confront Sherlock about it. She had let their relationship slide, sensing that he was troubled about her injuries. Molly should have made him talk sooner, but hadn't wanted to appear pushy. She knew he hated that. But perhaps she had waited too long. It was time to clear the air. Molly looked into the mirror, patted her hair now styled in a short pixie cap of curls. She missed her long hair dreadfully, but the new style was cute and made her look at least ten years younger. Her hair would grow, it wasn't the end of the world.

All in all, she had come out of the kidnapping in fairly good shape. Molly knew she was strong. She didn't have nightmares of Malcom Arnold, or shake at the thought of walking alone down a street at night. She was fine. She had told Sherlock she was fine. She had survived Moriarty's attack for Pete's sake! Malcom Arnold was nothing in comparison.

Molly suspected Sherlock's strange behavior lately had something to do with his inability to accept that Molly was willing to face a little danger now and then.

She adjusted the silk scarf about her neck. Red today, to match the pinstripe of her blouse. Teamed with tan slacks, she knew she looked good. She paused, then removed the scarf. She touched the red scar across her neck. Picking up concealer stick, she toned the red mark down and applied a bit of powder on top, There, let Sherlock see that it wasn't a big deal. Molly preferred wearing a scarf to having to constantly touch up her makeup, but Sherlock needed to see she was not traumatized by the scar. She carefully applied a light coat of lipstick, placed a dab of powder on her shiny nose and forced herself to smile. It was going to be okay. They would talk and work out any problems. She pulled on her short leather jacket and walked out of her flat. If she hurried a little, she could get there early enough to find a good table for them.

ɸ

Thank goodness, Guido's Tea and Coffee Emporium was nearly empty; only a few of the small tables were currently occupied. Molly crossed the room and slid into a dark paneled booth accented with brass. The green leather cushions of the seat crinkled softly as she sat down. Potted plants and hanging vines added airiness to the area as well as a illusion of privacy.

Located on a side street, Guido's quiet unassuming exterior did nothing to advertise itself. Molly had discovered it one day whilst shopping the several used book stores in the area. The minute she had stepped into the place, its cozy atmosphere and rich coffee smells had grabbed her attention. From the classical music quietly playing in the background to the pictures and portraits hung on the rich dark paneling. Everything spoke of comfort.

It was hard to say exactly what made Guido's different from hundreds of other small coffee shops scattered across London, but Molly had instantly fallen in love with the place. So had others, Guido's clientele were fiercely loyal. Evidently, once you discovered it, you always returned. Several of the faces at the tables were familiar.

Molly smiled and greeted the waiter, placing an order for a carafe of dark Italian roast coffee and an order of the shop's signature chocolate biscuits. Molly looked down at her watch as the waiter returned with her order. Three fifteen, it was not like Sherlock to be late. He was a fanatic about punctuality. She hoped he hadn't been called away on yet another case.

She busied herself looking into her purse for a small mirror to check her appearance one last time. When she looked up, he was inside the door, eyes searching for her. Molly waved and he crossed the room, sliding into the booth across from her.

"Hi!" Molly said brightly as she lifted the carafe and poured them both a mug of the fragrant brew. "I made sure to order the dark roast you prefer."

Sherlock didn't say anything. He just sat and stared deeply. His silvery eyes darted back and forth. Molly always felt a little self conscious when he did this, but it was something she had gotten used to. It was one of his quirks that was included in the reasons she loved him.

"Well, what did you discover?" she grinned.

"Your body has recovered from your attack. There is no evidence of psychological trauma. You appear healthy and whole despite the fact that you have lost three pounds."

"I am," Molly assured him. "It takes more than an attempted throat slashing to put me down!" She noticed him wince at the mention of slashing, but continued on, determined that he realize that the incident was not going to affect her life forever. "Now it's my turn. How is your arm?"

"Healed."

"And you are working again, so I take it that means you are suffering no psychological damage?" She searched his face for clues to how he felt, but found none. She wasn't convinced though. Something was causing his recent behavior. When he didn't answer, she decided to just come out with it.

"I sense something is bothering you. You are different since the Malcom Arnold case. He was of a part of your past. Are you sure you are feeling well? It might help to talk with someone about it." She waited patiently, but Sherlock continued to look at her, saying nothing.

"Have you talked to John? Maybe he . . ."

"I'm fine, Molly. There is no need to be concerned."

"Okay, then what is it? Have I done something to upset you?" Molly asked searching for a reason for the coolness in his attitude toward her. "I know you have been avoiding me."

Sherlock hesitated then looked at Molly. One of the many things he appreciated about her was her straightforward manner. He decided to return the favor.

"You almost died because of me," he said in a hoarse low voice.

Molly sighed. "I thought that was what this was about. Sherlock, I'm a big girl. I didn't die. It's fine."

"No!" Sherlock growled fiercely, "It's not fine, Molly. You were in constant danger because of me."

"Well, I didn't exactly carry a sign that read: 'Frail, weak, girlfriend of Sherlock Holmes, please abduct me!'" Molly laughed. "Just because it happened once, does not mean it will ever happen again! Please Sherlock, relax. It will all be okay, you are overreacting."

"It happened twice!" Sherlock corrected.

"If you are referring to Moriarty, he was already mad at me because I broke up with him. I never told you, but the break up was not pretty. James didn't want to leave, and I had to call for help to get him to take my rejection seriously. So you can't count yourself as the reason he kidnapped me, at least not entirely."

"You should have told me." Sherlock looked somewhat upset.

"Why?" Molly said. "It was before we were close, and I took care of it. Besides, I knocked him on his arse in the end didn't I? My point being, you are not the only one to make enemies. Maybe he did what he did because he realized I loved you and you were attracted to me. Who's to say I didn't cause you to be in danger?"

"That's ridiculous, Molly."

"Yes it is, but it makes you think doesn't it? We can't go about worrying about what some demented criminal is going to do. We need to live our lives and be happy with the time we have."

"I refuse to allow you to put yourself in danger because of me," Sherlock said determinedly.

"You, refuse to allow me?" Molly tasted his words. She didn't like them at all. "Sherlock, I am responsible for myself. I decide what happens to me."

"Not when it is my fault you are put in harms way!" Sherlock shot back.

Molly stared across the table at the consulting detective. She wished they had met at her flat. They were beginning to attract curious stares. So be it. She was not going to back down now.

"This is ridiculous, Sherlock." She glared. "This is what you tried to do with John all over again. When are you going to learn that your friends can take care of themselves and that we accept that you come with the possibility of danger?'

"I will not be the cause of your death!" Sherlock said.

They were at an impasse.

"So where does that leave us?" Molly asked. "Surely we can find a way around this problem."

Sherlock shook his head. He reached across the table and picked up one of Molly's hands. "We must end our relationship Molly. It's the only way I can be sure you will be safe."

"No Sherlock!, There has to be something we could do. Maybe we could pretend to break up, we could still see each other if we are careful."

"No, Molly, It has to be for real. I will not be responsible for your death."

"If you end this," Molly said bitterly, "it will be because you are not willing to fight. Do you care enough for me to fight for what we might have Sherlock?"

For an instant Molly thought she saw a flicker of emotion cross his face, but it was gone in an instant.

"I will not be the cause of your death," He repeated. "Some things are not meant to be, Molly."

"You actually believe that?" Molly asked incredulously. "Sherlock, you are the most rational man I know, and what you just said is not rational. No matter what bumps we take along the way, we make our own fate. Why can you not see that?"

'I'm sorry Molly," He said softly and released her hand. "For this to be effective, it must be very public. I regret what I am about to say deeply."

Sherlock slid from the booth. Straightened his shoulders and looked coldly down at Molly. "Then believe this," he said loudly with a viperous tone in his deep voice "It's over, Molly. I grow bored with this conversation. Go out and find yourself a tame boyfriend who will love and cherish you. I am not that man." He turned and walked across the floor and out the door.

Molly sat in shock for some time. The approach of the waiter finally brought her around.

"Miss, are you all right? Can I get you anything?" His voice contained hints of sympathy.

"No, thank you," Molly smiled sadly, "just the check please."

ɸ

_**A/N:**_ _Okay, we have now hit bottom! The only way left is up, right? Hang in there with me._


	15. Chapter 15 Change

**Chapter Fifteen - Change**

"Dr. Hooper, Dr. Hooper. Could we have your statement about Sherlock Holmes?"

The reporter shoved a microphone under Molly's nose as she tried to slip through the group of paparazzi clustered near the door to Bart's Hospital. Whirring clicks of high speed cameras snapped. Molly struggled as she moved through the crowd and headed for the back entrance. She had hoped this door would be unblocked, but knew she was out of luck as soon as her taxi had pulled to the curb.

"How do you feel about him dumping you in public? Have you met his new girl friend?" The persistent reporter shouted.

"Did he break off with you because he is gay?" That was from an oily looking fellow in a long brown coat.

"Have you talked with John Watson? Is he the reason for the break-up?" Someone else called out.

Molly kept her head down and her mouth shut. She pushed her way into the doorway to Bart's and heaved a sigh of relief when Tommy, the security guard, blocked the crowd from entering the lobby.

"Sorry, Dr. Hooper. I checked a few minutes ago and the way was clear. They just seem to come out of nowhere. Are you okay?" the guard asked as he escorted her to the elevators. There were no hidden reporters about, but he wanted to make sure Dr. Hooper got to the morgue unmolested.

"I'm fine, thank you Tommy. You don't need to go any further. I'll be okay."

The lift doors opened and Molly stepped inside and pressed the button for the basement floor. She smiled her appreciation to Tommy as the doors slid shut and started its downward descent.

Molly sagged against the wall of the elevator. The motion stilled with a small upward jerk and the doors slid open. She peered out and released a small puff of relief. The hallway was clear. Not unusual for this part of the hospital, but she had been half afraid curious colleagues would be waiting for her. Normally, she would have gone first to her office beside the labs on the second floor, but today she just wanted privacy for as long as possible. She shifted the strap to her shoulder bag and slipped quietly down the corridor.

It was the fourth day since her break up with Sherlock. The tabloid journalists were having a field day. It had been quite a shock to see the picture of Sherlock and herself plastered across the headlines and social media sites with lurid titles such as: "Detective Dumps Dr. Death," or "Holmes Heaves Hospital Honey."

The pictures did not flatter her. Sherlock, damn the man, had looked gorgeous as he frowned down into her shocked face. At least it was supposed to be a shocked look, Molly had been there, so she knew it was a shocked face. The picture told another story. In it, her face glared up at the handsome detective. her lip curled in a snarl. Sherlock's expression was one of compassionate bewilderment. How had that happened? Everything was the wrong way round!

Someone in the coffee shop had taken pictures and filmed the breakup of the famous detective and his soon to be ex-girlfriend. The words in the tabloid stories were almost identical to what Molly remembered Sherlock saying, but the writer of the article had slanted the piece to make them more salacious. He or she had made it seem that Molly had been the one who was the reason for the break-up. Sherlock Holmes had been wronged. There had even been mentions of her dating James Moriarty and speculation that was the reason for the breakup. Other articles dwelt on the fact that she was a pathologist and made it seem if she were some kind of Dr. Frankenstein wielding her scalpels in the depths of a dark dungeon-like morgue. Whatever the rumors and gossip, none were favorable to Dr. Molly Hooper. It was too much.

Molly was still in shock. She didn't know what to think. She just hurt. She ought to be used to Sherlock hurting her. She had developed a somewhat thicker skin over the years in a simple matter of survival, but this was different. This hurt.

"Morning Dr. Hooper," the cheerful voice of her lab tech, Billy rang out.

Molly jumped a little, and made a nervous noise in her throat. "Sorry Billy, I thought I was alone here."

"That's all right Dr. Hooper. I expect you have had your fill of people lately. It's just me and our customers here today. They have promised to be extra quiet. Shall I wheel the first one out for you?"

Molly smiled appreciatively at her lab tech. Billy was a little odd with his quick jokes and quirky tee shirts that he always wore under his open lab coat. Today's had the words: "I'm not a doctor, but I'll take a look" printed under a stethoscope on his shirt. Billy was just what she needed, his friendly unassuming chatter calmed her. Together they set out their tools and started the first post mortem. The routine further relaxed Molly, and soon only the corpse in front of her held her thoughts. Sixty-four, slightly overweight, Mr. Duncan had died of coronary thrombosis. Sad, Molly reflected, he should have had at least twenty more years. A shame, really.

ɸ

Sherlock lay on the sofa in a fetal position. He hadn't moved in six hours. He wasn't asleep. He wasn't in his mind palace. He just lay there in limbo. Things had not gone as he planned. He wasn't surprised, after all it was about emotions, which were not his area of expertise. He hadn't expected to feel so guilty, so upset. He had done what was necessary to protect Molly and that should have been the end of it.

Sherlock had known the tabloids would get involved, he had counted on it. He had wanted to make sure his enemies knew his association with Molly was over. What he hadn't counted on was the vindictive manner the press had treated Molly. For some unknown reason, he was now in a favored position once more. Perhaps an overreaction to the negative press before the fall? What ever the reason, the fourth estate had decided he could do no wrong and that Dr. Molly Hooper was a source of deepest villainy.

The Yarders had had a field day. Anderson and Donavan were gloating openly and some of the others were not far from it. It was nothing he could not handle but even Lestrade went so far as to ask him if he had made up to Molly yet and to tell him what a stupid arse he was.

John had not been so gentle. John had stormed into the flat at Baker Street.

"Sherlock! Have you seen these?" He dumped several tabloids into the detective's lap.

Sherlock glanced at the lurid headlines winced and said: "Why do they always use the hat picture?"

"Is this true? Did you break up with her in public. In front of people?"

"It was in a coffee shop, and yes, we are no longer involved in a relationship."

"Are you aware that the media is having a field day?" John walked over to the window and looked down. "Jesus, Sherlock there are even more reporters down there than when I came in. There must be twenty or more. What are you going to do about it?"

Sherlock crossed to the window and looked down. "Twenty-four," he clarified. "I am going to do nothing about it John. It will blow over as soon as something more interesting happens." He placed his hands in his pockets and looked away, which was a mistake as he did not see John's arm draw back and was thoroughly taken by surprise as the fist landed in his face. Sherlock gave a grunt of surprise, but did not retaliate.

"You bastard," John swore. "Molly does not deserve to be treated like this. After all she has done for you! She loves you, Sherlock, and I know you care for her. Why are you doing this?" John glared at his friend as Sherlock wiped blood on the back of his hand from his split lip.

"It's better this way, John," Sherlock said, eyeing his friend warily for more signs of violence. "She'll get over it. Molly is strong, she will handle it just fine. Why are you upset? This has nothing to do with you."

"She's my friend Sherlock. You have treated her like crap and thrown her to the wolves!" John picked up one of the tabloids he had brought with him and shook it under Sherlock's nose. "Look at her! Does she look like she's fine?"

Sherlock glanced at the front page picture and winced. Molly was surrounded by a crowd of reporters struggling to free herself from the cameras and microphones shoved in her face. She looked tiny, worn out and very fragile. Sherlock steeled his face for another blow and said, "It will be over soon. You know how the press is. They never stick around long."

John's lips thinned in a grimace of anger. He sorely wanted to knock some sense into his friend, but something about Sherlock's stance told John that the detective would not defend himself. An image of Sherlock crouched on the kitchen floor holding Molly's shorn ponytail flashed before his eyes. Something wasn't right. He gave a frustrated grunt and growled at his friend.

"You know what? Just forget it. I need time to cool off. You stay here and pretend everything is fine. I'm going. I'll be at Mary's."

John stomped up the stairs to his room, packed a bag and left the flat out the back door without another word.

ɸ

Molly and Billy finished the fourth post mortem right before lunch. Today he wore a tee shirt sporting a Snellen eye chart with the words "**Don't Blink"** underneath.

"Dr. Hooper, I'm going to that deli down the street. Would you like for me to bring back a sandwich for you?"

"Thank you Billy, but I brought a salad from home. I will be fine. Enjoy your lunch."

"Sure thing, Doc," Billy said as he finished cleaning the work area and Molly scrubbed her hands. She didn't feel like eating, but maybe going to her office and starting on the reports would be a good idea.

Once in her office. Molly tackled the mound of reports that needed to be done. She worked steadily for several hours and was surprised to glance up and see Mary Morstan standing in the door of her office at three o'clock.

"How are you doing sweetie?" Mary asked sympathetically.

Molly stood up and the two women hugged. Tears Molly had been holding back burst forth.

"I'm so sorry," Molly sobbed into her friend's shoulder, "I don't mean to cry."

"That's okay," Mary assured her. "If you like, I'll have John give him another punch if it will help you feel better."

"Another?" Molly questioned. "You mean John actually hit Sherlock?" She asked horrified.

"Yeah, he split his lip," Mary grinned. "John was way too soft on him. In my opinion, he should have at least cracked a rib or two!"

"I don't want them fighting over me!" Molly wailed. "You don't understand, Sherlock is just trying to protect me."

"He has a funny way of showing it," Mary said grimly.

"Trust me," Molly said tearfully, "he really thinks this is the only way to keep me safe."

Mary opened her mouth to reply but was interrupted by her mobile buzzing. She looked down and frowned at the message.

"I'm needed upstairs," she explained, "call me when you get home tonight," She gave Molly a final hug. "Gotta go."

Molly stared blankly at her computer screen. What was she going to do? She wasn't sure, but she was tired of just reacting to circumstances. It was time she went on the offensive. One thing for sure, she told herself firmly, Sherlock Holmes had not gotten rid of Molly Hooper so easily.

ɸ

_Several days later_

Molly sat at her desk doing nothing. There were plenty of reports to file. Lots of documents to sort out, but she sat pensively staring at the screen of her computer in a mini-rebellion.

It had only been a couple of months since the notorious Pauline Rodrick and her team of efficiency experts had finished and filed their recommendations for changes reflecting the new budget cuts the current government had mandated. Already several departments had been downsized in the name of efficiency. Today was the day the pathology department received word of changes that were to occur.

Molly nervously fiddled with the most recent mail lying on her desk unopened. Rumors were rampant. During break, she had heard everything from the shutdown of the department to actual budget increases and development. It seemed no one knew for sure what was going on. Mike Stamford was in conference at this time and Molly and several of the other pathologists and Interns were scheduled for meetings later this afternoon.

Molly sighed, after the last few days, what else could happen? At least the reporters were no longer hounding her. Apparently they had bigger fish to fry than Molly Hooper.

She had hoped to receive at least a text from Sherlock, but apparently he was serious about cutting all ties. Her fingers hovered over her phone, but pride forced her to remain silent. She wasn't the one who started this ridiculous situation. She was not going to text first. Molly was still determined to make him see reason, but hadn't come up with a plan yet. She missed him dreadfully. The git! Once she had him back she was going to make sure he never did something this asinine again.

At four o'clock Molly's phone rang.

"Molly, this is Mike Stamford. Could you come up to my office?"

This was it. Molly swallowed. Dr. Stamford didn't sound cheerful.

"I'll be right up."

Molly sat in the chair across the desk from Mike Stamford. He looked at her solemnly.

"I don't know how to say this," he began and Molly knew it was going to be bad.

"The decision has been made to downsize the morgue. We will no longer be accepting cadavers or assisting the met in criminal cases. All police related work will be done at the Royal London Hospital in Whitechapel. Only post mortems of cadavers designated as specimens for pathology students will remain at Bart's. This means we will no longer retain a full staff of Pathologists and Interns. The department will retain the services of and Dr. Lattimore as they are senior Pathologists. All other positions are to be terminated. I am so sorry, Molly. Of course you will receive a generous severance package and the highest of references.

Molly sat for a moment in shock. She was being made redundant! She had expected budget cuts and perhaps payroll reductions, but not this. She squared her shoulders and looked at Mike's sympathetic face.

"Effective when?" she asked quietly.

"That depends," Mike said. "You have two weeks holiday due. You may opt to cash them in at one half the regular pay scale and your last day would be in two weeks, or you may choose to take your holiday effective immediately in which your last day would be tomorrow."

Molly sat stunned. Neither option was good.

"You can think about it tonight and let me know tomorrow," Mike said gently.

Molly shook her head. What did it matter what day she left? Her job was gone. "I've decided to take holiday option. Tomorrow is my last day."

"I'm so sorry Molly," Mike said again.

"What about you Mike? Is your job secure?" Molly asked.

Mike smiled sadly, "There's not much need for a full time administrator over Pathology, now," he said. "Dr. Pauling has agreed to accept the administrative responsibilities that remain. I will be teaching part time for as long as I choose to stay."

"Oh Mike! I can't believe this is happening!"

"Neither can I," Mike Stamford said.

Back in her office, Molly collected her few belongings into a small box. She might as well clear out her office today. One less thing to do tomorrow. Molly knew she was in shock. She moved slowly as she gathered her things and prepared to leave for the day.

Molly's mobile rang. She quickly glance down. Could it be Sherlock? It was Mary.

"Oh god Molly, I just heard! I'm so sorry! Do you want me to come over to your flat this evening? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine Mary. No, I hope you don't mind. but I really want to be alone this evening. I'll call you if I change my mind."

"Are you sure? You will call if you change your mind?" Mary's voice sounded frantic.

"Yes, I will," Molly promised. "I just need time to think, I'll see you tomorrow, Oh, Mary. If you tell John, ask him to not say anything to Sherlock. I want to be the one to tell him."

Mary had reluctantly agreed and ended the call.

Later, Molly, carrying her small pasteboard box of belongings left the back entrance of Bart's. She decided to walk home. It was never too soon to start economizing. As she walked away from Bart's, a long black sedan pulled up at the curb and Mycroft Holmes' PA stepped from the car.

"Good afternoon, Dr. Hooper," Anthea greeted her. "Mr. Holmes would like to speak with you. Could you get into the car please?"


	16. Complications

**Chapter Sixteen – Complications**

Molly slid into the back seat of the limo. Now was not the best time to be speaking to Mycroft Holmes. She had mixed feelings about talking to him at all. Her emotions were in turmoil and the thought of having to discuss her private life with someone she barely knew was unsettling. Sherlock did not get along well with his brother. Aggravated as she was with her former boyfriend, Molly still felt a sense of loyalty that urged her to be cautious with anything to do with Mycroft Holmes.

The limo smoothly glided down the busy streets of London and Molly realized they were headed into an area she was unfamiliar with. Where were they going? When she first got into the car, she assumed they would be heading to his office or perhaps a restaurant. John was always going on about Mycroft kidnapping him, but she had always assumed he had been exaggerating, perhaps not. She glanced at the woman sitting next to her tapping busily on her Blackberry. After a few moments of watching her, Molly realized she was not going to get the woman's attention. Very well, two could play that game. Molly turned and looked out the window refusing to glance back at her companion.

"_**She hasn't asked me anything"**_ Anthea tapped.

"_**Good, good**_**"** the answer came back.

"_**Start phase two**_"

Anthea stretched forward and touched the shoulder of the driver. "Turn left at the corner." She sat back and tapped out another message.

"_**Phase two commencing"**_

Twenty minutes later, Molly became a bit more disturbed by her surroundings. Like most large cities, civilized streets were often not far from less palpable areas. They were no longer cruising well groomed pavement, rather the neighborhoods were becoming seedy and rather tough looking. Most of the shops had heavy bars across their windows and doors. Those that didn't were derelict and falling into ruin. Newspapers and other trash blew across the street, and from the looks of the garbage piled up in the alleyways, it had been some time since refuse had been collected in the area. Molly glanced at her companion nervously.

"_**She is beginning to suspect it was not a good idea to have gotten into the car**_" Anthea tapped.

"Where are we going?" Molly asked Mycroft's PA. "Why are we in this area?"

Anthea just looked at her briefly, smiled, then looked back at her phone. Molly crossed her arms. She didn't like this at all. What in the world was going on? This was Mycroft's car wasn't it? She looked at  
Anthea carefully. She had only seen the woman once, but she was sure this was the same woman. Or was she? Molly bit her bottom lip. Who was this woman actually? Did she really know enough about her to trust her as she had? Molly began to swear under her breath. For that matter, what did she know about Mycroft Holmes? Not enough apparently.

"_**The rabbit is ready to bolt"**_ Anthea typed.

"_**Commence phase three"**_

"_**Acknowledged**_**"**

Anthea slipped her hand into a pocket and pressed a button. The car took a sharp turn left and sped up. She looked at Molly and smiled. "We are almost there," she said in a reassuring voice.

Molly stared at the woman. How could she sound so normal when their surroundings were so decrepit?

"Why are we here in this place? I don't like it. It looks unsafe. Please take me home," Molly demanded as forcefully as she could.

"We are almost there," Anthea repeated. "You will understand everything soon."

"I think I would rather go home now," Molly replied.

"Of course, if you wish." Anthea smirked. "I hesitate to recommend the area for any woman alone, but of course if you insist, we will be glad to stop the car and let you out."

Molly stared at the woman in shock. "I want you to take me back to St. Bart's hospital now." She glared at Anthea.

"I'm afraid that won't be possible Dr. Hooper." Anthea said.

The limo slowed and was suddenly surrounded by a group of burly men who began pounding on the exterior of the limo while screaming obscenities. To her horror, Molly's door was jerked open and she found herself pulled out and roughly manhandled. Anthea sat in the back seat of the limo calmly continuing to tap away.

At first Molly was too shocked to react, then her training kicked in and she began to fight back.

"_**She is surprisingly proficient in hand to hand combat"**_ Anthea tapped_. __**"Two are down and she has a good grip on a third. Your orders not to actually hurt her are limiting their effectiveness"**_

"_**Agreed. Put an end to it before she hurts one of them"**_

"_**Yes sir" **_

Anthea climbed out of the car, walked into the melee and grabbed hold of the back of Molly Hooper's neck and threw her to the ground. Molly looked up in surprise as Anthea slapped a pair of cuffs on her ankles as the remaining three men held her arms. Soon another pair of cuffs were on her wrists and Molly was unceremoniously flung over one of the men's shoulder while the others warily watched her feet as she struggled to free herself.

"Here's a tip for you honey," Anthea purred. "Always expect the unexpected."

Molly spat into her face. Anthea frowned, but ignored the insult as she tapped on her ever present phone.

"_**Entering the target area"**_

"_**Yes, I can see. Well done." **_

Mycroft Holmes flipped his phone closed and slipped it into his waistcoat pocket. Sherlock thought he didn't like to text. Well, he didn't normally, but he found communicating with Anthea this way extremely productive. Besides, it amused him that he had Sherlock convinced he held an aversion to the medium.

Molly was carried into an abandoned building, tied to a chair and left rather unceremoniously alone. Her wrists and ankles remained in the cuffs. Struggling only succeeded in tipping the chair over, causing her head to bounce with a sickening crack as it connected with the hard concrete floor. Molly passed out and was unaware of a concerned medic who quickly examined her injury. A half hour passed, and then an hour went by before Molly became aware of her surroundings once more. She began to scream for help. Why was this happening? Molly gritted her teeth and jerked at her bonds. Her chair had been righted, when had that happened? As she continued to struggle, her wrists became raw from her efforts to pull free.

The tap-tap of his umbrella was the first she was aware of his presence. Molly looked up and watched as Mycroft Holmes crossed the floor and sat in a chair opposite her.

"You are only hurting yourself Dr. Hooper," he chided gently. "Please calm yourself."

"Why are you doing this? What have I ever done to you for you to treat me in such a way? What in the hell is going on?" Molly spat.

Mycroft shook his head. "Temper, Dr. Hooper. I can see that you are unprepared to talk civilly about your situation. Perhaps you will be in a better mood tomorrow." He stood, turned and began to walk away.

"Wait! Mycroft, don't leave! Just tell me why you are doing this!" Molly wailed.

Mycroft stood still, his back still facing Molly. He slowly counted to ten, then turned and stared at her coldly.

"I am simply proving a point. Since you have become publicly associated with my brother, how many times have you been kidnapped?" Mycroft stared at Molly and when she didn't reply, supplied the answer. "If you count this little adventure, it makes three. Twice, my brother has thrown caution to the wind and recklessly put his life and the lives of his friends in danger in order to rescue you. You are dangerous Dr. Hooper. What I want is for my brother to have a fighting chance to stay alive in the crazy work he has chosen to pursue."

"What has that got to do with me? In case you haven't noticed, the bastard dumped me. I am not threat to Sherlock Holmes."

"On the contrary, Dr. Hooper, you are still very much a threat to my brother's well-being. If he continues to lie about mooning over you much longer, he is going to attract a bullet before long. He is not taking care of himself. I can protect him temporarily, but a more permanent solution must be achieved."

Molly stared at the older Holmes. "W-what are you saying?"

Mycoft bent his head to the left and stared at the tip of his umbrella. His voice, when he finally spoke, was deceptively soft.

"Which do you prefer Dr. Hooper? Death, or a new career?"


	17. The Decision

Chapter Seventeen –The Decision

"W-w-what?"

Molly stared opened mouthed at Sherlock's brother. She couldn't believe this was happening.

Mycroft's lips were drawn in a grim line. Everything about his body posture indicated that he was absolutely serious. He turned his head slightly and raised his left hand. A door to the left squeaked as one of the burly thugs from the assault outside, entered the room and walked over to Molly. He began untying her from the chair. Next, he pulled a key from his pocket and efficiently removed the wrist and ankle cuffs. With a nod to Mycroft, he quietly left the room.

Mycroft, shifted slightly in his chair. "Now, Dr. Hooper," he said in a calm voice, "Let me repeat myself. . . which do you prefer? Death or . . ."

Molly snarled, and lunged forward. Mycroft stood and in an effortless motion, clipped Molly's neck slightly, pinned her arms and arched her body in such a way as to prevent any damage from her kicking feet.

"Really, Dr. Hooper, I assure you, if you continue this approach, the only one to suffer will be yourself. I can think of seventeen ways to eliminate any threat you may pose to me at this time, and I haven't even counted the more deadly or crippling ones." He tightened the pressure on her arms until they throbbed. "I may not be as fast as I once was, but I am still quite capable of handling any threat you may pose. Now, are you ready to talk, or shall we continue this distasteful body contact?"

Molly gritted her teeth, she was helpless in her current position. Perhaps talking would present a better opportunity for escape.

"I'll talk," she said and gave a small sigh of relief as Mycroft released her arms. At first the absence of pain felt wonderful, until the pins and needles of feeling returning in her arms began to scream for attention. Molly stretched her back carefully and rubbed her arms as she carefully rotated her stiff neck. "What did you do to me?" she glared.

Mycroft's lips twitched as he warily watched the small pathologist. She was much stronger than she appeared, and as such warranted his closest attention.

"It's humorously referred to as a _Vulcan Nerve Pinch _in my circles," he told her with a smirk that somehow made him look briefly like his brother. "Most people succumb to unconsciousness when it is used on them. You impress me, Dr. Hooper. Now please, sit down. We have much to discuss."

Molly sat. She stared at Mycroft sitting opposite. He didn't look dangerous. He appeared slightly overweight, balding and sedentary in his habits. Anyone who saw him would assume the most strenuous thing he had tackled lately was a second helping of dessert. Molly now knew different. She suspected that his waistcoat and jacket were padded to create the illusion of general flabbiness. She wouldn't be surprised to find he wore internal cheek prosthetics to puff up his face, though why anyone would cultivate such an appearance she didn't know. This man was an enigma.

He wanted to talk? Well, Molly wanted answers. She stared at him steadily and asked.

"What are you exactly? You are more than just Sherlock's brother. Why are you interested in me? Don't just say it's because you are concerned about Sherlock. I can tell it is much more than that," Molly hissed.

"Impressive, Dr. Hooper, most perceptive of you, perhaps I am beginning to see why Sherlock finds you so enthralling. First, let me assure you, my brother's welfare is of my utmost concern. He and I may not agree about the world that surrounds us, but he is a part of my family. What I am is not important. I hold a minor position in government, and as such am privileged to point out potential talent to my employers. They are interested in you, Doctor Hooper, and I have been asked to make first contact to determine your interest. I mean you no personal harm."

"These people you refer to…are they legitimate? You're not talking about some sort of gang or crime lords are you?" Molly asked.

Mycroft snorted. "I assure you, you are being recruited by the most respectable and highest of authorities in the land." He appeared genuinely amused by her question.

Molly stared, bewildered. "But you just asked me if I preferred to die or have a new career. If that's not a threat, what is it?"

"Forgive me, Dr. Hooper, but I needed to get your attention. I have no intentions of causing you discomfort as long as you cooperate."

"As long as I cooperate?" Molly repeated, "What happens if I don't cooperate?"

Mycroft smiled thinly and said nothing for a moment. He shifted slightly, crossed his legs and looked into her eyes.

"If you decide you are not interested in associating with us, Dr. Hooper, the headlines of next Tuesday's papers will recount the details of a spectacular car crash on the M25. One of the victims will be Dr. Molly Hooper who was traveling to Bristol with a former colleague for a job interview. Sad how these tragedies occur is it not?" Mycroft shook his head sadly. "As far as my brother is concerned, it will be the end of your story."

"You, however, will be relocated to Canada. I have contacts there that will provide you with a new identity and job. You will be free to live your life as you choose, but you will not be allowed to return to the UK. If you try to contact my brother or any of your old friends, I will know Dr. Hooper, and I will not rest until you have been neutralized. Do I make myself clear?"

Molly swallowed. This Mycroft was different. Colder and more deadly if possible, he meant what he said and Molly knew he would not hesitate to carry out her demise in fact.

"And what happens if I choose the new career option?"

"Nothing much on the surface," Mycroft assured her. "You will continue your duties as pathologist at St. Bartholomew's hospital with an occasional excursion to other locations as your new position requires. You will keep and submit detailed reports to me as required. Nothing too strenuous or at least not anything you can't handle once you have been properly trained."

"You want me to act as your spy?" Molly asked incredulously. "What do you expect me to do, run around like James Bond or something? You have to be kidding!" Molly laughed. "How is this supposed to help me with Sherlock? He is not going to approve of me working for you and doing your dirty work."

"Ah, it may be necessary for Sherlock to be unaware of your new duties, at least for some time. My brother requires a great deal of surveillance; you will be able to assist in that area."

"No," Molly said, "I don't care what you do to me. I will not spy on Sherlock for you. Anyway, you are too late. Not only have I lost my job at Bart's, but I have absolutely nothing to do with Sherlock Holmes. I can't help you or your mysterious employers."

"If you accept, I think you will find that the decision to downsize the mortuary at St. Bartholomew's will be up for reconsideration about the time you have finished any training we require of you," Mycroft said softly.

Molly stared at Sherlock's brother. "Were you responsible for everyone loosing their jobs in the Pathology department?" She asked angrily.

"No, Dr. Hooper. I'm afraid the economy at fault for that. However, it has come in a timely manner wouldn't you say? You are looking for a position and I am offering you one. What could be better for both of us?"

"I fail to see how this is going to help Sherlock. He dumped me remember? Sherlock doesn't care if I live or die, and has no interest in renewing our relationship," Molly said firmly.

"I wouldn't be so sure if I were you," Mycroft said mildly. "I think my brother has a deplorable penchant for self-sacrifice. He tends to be rather dramatic in his efforts to protect those he cares for. He demonstrated this with his faked death. He is doing the same with his relationship with you. He's trying to protect you, Dr. Hooper."

"You think I don't know that? It makes no difference what his motives are. He will never allow me near him again. He is apparently doing just fine without me. Why rock the boat?" Molly asked bitterly.

Mycroft sighed. "I was hoping that I need not show you this." He slid his hand into his waistcoat pocket and pulled out a tiny remote. Pointing it forward, he pressed a button and a video was projected onto the wall behind his head. It was Sherlock, pacing back and forth in his living room. Every few moments he paused and stared vacantly, then started pacing again. Obviously, he was distressed.

"This proves nothing," Molly hissed, "and where do you get off spying on him in his own home? Are you some sort of pervert?"

"It is necessary," Mycroft said. "Please continue to watch closely. This was filmed last night." The video changed to Sherlock's bedroom. Molly was horrified. Did Mycroft Holmes have no sense of decency? On the film Sherlock had been lying on the bed on his back. Even with the dim light and the grainy quality of the tape, she could see the tears streaking down his face. He suddenly moved from the bed and crossed the room to a chest . Opening the top drawer, he carefully pulled out what at first looked like a long scarf. As he buried his face in the object, Molly realized that it was her ponytail that Jacob Arnold had cut off and sent to Sherlock.

"Turn it off!" Molly sobbed, completely overwhelmed.

'Still believe he is doing fine?"

"How dare you! He deserves privacy. Do you have cameras in every room?"

"More than one in each. My brother does not have the best track record when it comes to relieving stress. Dr. Watson has found drug paraphernalia twice in the last two weeks. We are both concerned."

Molly knew Sherlock had had issues with drugs in the past. She bit her lip.

"How do you propose I can help? He won't let me near him."

"As I said before, John, Mrs. Hudson, and I are handling things temporarily. Sherlock thinks of you as a weakness, one who needs to be protected, I'm afraid. My brother needs to reassess his anti-feminist proclivities. You will need to prove to him that you are capable of taking care of yourself no matter the circumstance. I can help you provide that proof."

"He already knows I am an asset to his work, or at least I was when I still had a job," Molly said.

"Perhaps so," Mycroft agreed, "however, if you will give me six months of your time for training, I guarantee you will be able to impress him with your new found skills."

"Six months?" Molly squeaked. "That's half a year! I can't possibly do that!"

"Four at the bare minimum, and that's if you progress as rapidly as I think you will. You are already in surprisingly good shape and are fairly proficient in rudimentary skills."

Molly stared at the man. "How in the world do you think all this…" she waved her hands about searching for the words. "How do you know this will have any effect on how Sherlock sees me?"

For the first time Mycroft Homes smiled a genuine smile, it made his eyes crinkle in the corners and gave his face a boyish look. "My brother is fascinated with mysteries Dr. Hooper. Once you are ready, we will give him a mystery of such magnitude he won't be able resist you!"

ɸ

Mrs. Hudson pushed the partially open door to 221b wider, knocked on the door frame and called out in a cheery voice.

"Hoo, hoo, Sherlock? This letter just came for you." Martha Hudson crossed the space to where Sherlock sat on the couch bent over the laptop on his knees. She held out the letter.

"Just put it on the table," Sherlock said without looking up, "I'm busy."

"Alright, dear." She walked back into the kitchen and laid the envelope down beside his microscope. "Oh, this is terrible!" The landlady moaned as she surveyed the clutter of scientific equipment littering the table. "I'm surprised you ever get anything done in this mess!"

"Stop complaining Mrs. Hudson, I have everything organized. Don't touch anything!" Sherlock growled from across the room.

"I don't know why I put up with you!" His landlady grumbled. "When is the last time you used this kitchen to prepare any food?"

"Good bye, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said firmly.

"Well, see that you eat something today," Mrs. Hudson demanded.

"Hummph!" Sherlock replied and didn't bother to take his eyes from the screen as his landlady shook her head and left.

Two days later, John was making tea and spotted the envelope leaning against the microscope.

"Sherlock? Have you read this letter?"

"Who writes anything of importance in a letter nowadays John?" Sherlock said in a rather indifferent voice as he lay sprawled on the couch.

"Apparently, Molly does. It's from her." John said peering at the return address.

Sherlock was across the room in a flash and snatched the envelope from John's hands. He looked at the outside carefully, then ripped open the letter and read:

Dearest Sherlock,

I did not feel an email was appropriate. Texting or phoning was not an option since I know you don't wish to speak to me. I decided to send an old-fashioned letter, I hope you don't mind.

I do not want you to worry about me. You probably know by this time that I have been made redundant at Bart's. They're closing down the morgue and limiting it to educational use only. I'm sorry you will be inconvenienced, but I'm also sure you will soon find another morgue and pathologist who will meet your work requirements. Mycroft may be able to help. Please let him.

I will be leaving to visit my great aunt in Devon for a few days. After that, I will be traveling on to America. I have been invited to fill a last minute position at the Wexner Medical Research Center at The Ohio State University in Columbus, Ohio. We will be beginning studies of the interactions of nanoparticles increasingly being incorporated in processed food with intestinal epithelium. This is cutting edge science at a world renowned facility. I will have the option in six months to leave or to become a full time part of the faculty there.

Please be happy for me. I miss you Sherlock. I still care for you. If you want to talk with me, I will be at my flat until Tuesday.

Love,

Molly xxx

"What is it" John asked anxiously as he watched Sherlock scan the letter.

"What day is it, John?" Sherlock asked suddenly.

"Wednesday. Why?"

Sherlock groaned. "I'm too late!"

"Too late for what?" John asked, becoming concerned with the look on his friend's face.

Sherlock didn't answer. He crumbled the letter into a ball and walked to his bedroom and slammed the door.

ɸ

Molly nervously plucked at the leg of her slacks in the back of the black limousine that sped through the night towards her destination, an unnamed military facility that housed what Mycroft had referred to as "special operations."

She felt a bit guilty about lying to Sherlock in her letter, but Mycroft had insisted that it was vitally important that the detective be thrown off of her trail. If he insisted on checking, the airlines would confirm the passage of one Molly Hooper to Columbus International Airport in Ohio and the director at Wexner would confirm her presence there.

The limo slowed as they pulled up to the gates of a high chain-link fence topped with razor wire. "Photography Prohibited Beyond This Point" announced a large sign on the fence. Her driver rolled down his window to speak with a sentry that stepped out to clear them through.


End file.
